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Chapter Text

At first, Jingyi doesn’t notice anything different, and that’s partly due to the fact that Sizhui doesn’t act out of the ordinary.

While boasting is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, Jingyi isn’t afraid to say that he’s more than proud to be Sizhui’s best friend because Sizhui truly is one of the best disciples to grace the halls of their sect. He’s not only the ideal of a skilled cultivator, excelling in their studies and practices, but one of the most patient and considerate people Jingyi has known since they were children.

Jingyi was able to see firsthand that youthful sweetness bloom into a deep well of genuine generosity, of which he’s been a constant recipient over almost fifteen years of friendship. From keeping Jingyi company when he was punished to copy rules for hours, to bringing him tea and snacks when they studied together, to placing himself at Jingyi’s side during night-hunts—Sizhui has never withheld such acts of care and kindness.

So, when Sizhui treats Jingyi to small things during their trips to the nearest town after group night-hunts (now an unspoken tradition among their generation’s disciples) he thinks little of it.

They’re at a small village between Lanling Jin and Gusu Lan that’s celebrating a recent harvest. The streets are filled with visitors and locals engaging in the festivities, merchants proudly showing off their wares, and children underfoot with happy shouts. The late afternoon is muggy but tempered by a mild breeze and bursting with rich smells and sounds.

“Jingyi, what do you think?” Sizhui asks, holding up a comb.

Jingyi knows little about the art of woodwork but from what he can tell, the comb looks well made, fine-grained wood sleekly polished and gleaming under the glow of the stringed lanterns hanging above them. The intricate undulations of the stem give way to subtle patterns of flower petals, no small feat of craftsmanship.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “Are you going to buy it?”

“Do you like it? You mentioned the one you have was getting worn,” Sizhui says.

Jingyi can’t remember when he made such a comment, but he must have at some point for Sizhui to bring it up. “Uh, yeah, it’s nice. You don’t have to get it for me, though.”

But Sizhui’s already paid the merchant by the time Jingyi’s done talking. He smiles at Jingyi and presses the comb into his hand. “Too late.”

Jingyi snorts before sweeping his side bangs up and around the crown of his head, securing them beside his headpiece with the comb. He groans in relief as cool air tickles his exposed cheek and neck, where the humid heat has left behind dots of sweat. “Ahh, that feels so much better! What do you think?”

Sizhui distinctly inhales but appears normal when Jingyi glances at him. “It looks good.”

Jingyi grins. He keeps the comb there as they go through town, marveling at how nice it is to not have his long bangs shadowing half of his face. He catches Sizhui staring at him a few times and doesn’t blame him; he rarely put his hair up like this, it must look odd despite what Sizhui said.

The afternoon gives unhurried way to a pleasant evening. Sizhui seems to be even more indulgent than usual, offering to buy whatever catches Jingyi’s eye. First, it’s a beautiful inkpot, then a paper lantern decorated with peony flowers, followed by a painted face mask, all of which Jingyi admires, yes, but has no need for.

“Sizhui, stop, what are we going to do with chickens?” Jingyi can barely speak over giggles as he tries to coax Sizhui from the amused merchant.

“We can put them with the rabbits,” Sizhui says, hands hovering over a crate of two curious roosters. His eyes are a bit glazed over as if he’s imagining the layout of the Cloud Recesses and planning the exact location of a chicken coop among Hanguang-jun’s rabbit hutches.

Jingyi chokes on laughter, weakly yanking at Sizhui’s arm. “Si-Sizhui—no, Teacher Lan will have a heart attack!”

Sizhui’s gaze refocuses and he chuckles, letting Jingyi join their arms and wheel him away from the chicken crates.

“What’s up with you tonight?” Jingyi asks after a few minutes of strolling through the bustling street, still holding onto Sizhui in case he decides to sneak a purchase behind Jingyi’s back. “It’s not my birthday for another few months.”

“I know,” Sizhui says. He looks pleased for some reason.

“Then why are you trying to buy out the whole street?”

“I’m not.” Sizhui’s eyes twinkle under the lantern lights.

Jingyi can feel his cheek twitching. Sizhui may be the model young cultivator, but he also has a stubbornly mysterious streak that manifests occasionally in the form of being utterly cryptic while retaining a visage of peerless jade perfected since childhood.

At least three of their rules are carved on the walls because of that look in Sizhui’s eyes, not that anyone but Jingyi would know.

“Just the things you like.”

“What?”

“Not the whole street. Just the things you like.”

It takes a moment for the words to click together in Jingyi’s mind. His arm tightens as a wave of affection washes over him. Leave it to Sizhui to have Jingyi’s interests at the forefront of his mind when he has done nothing to earn such consideration.

“You’re too good sometimes, Sizhui.”

“Nonsense,” Sizhui says, and it’s an exchange they’ve had countless times, so they leave it at that. They spend the rest of the hour taking in the sights, Jingyi pointing out interesting items and Sizhui murmuring agreement. Their arms remain entwined, Sizhui’s hand resting on Jingyi’s forearm.

They’ve entered the inn for dinner with the other disciples when Jin Ling does a double-take so fast his hair ornament whaps his neck, and then squints at Jingyi as if studying a particularly colorful insect.

“What’s that look for?” Jingyi says defensively. “Is there something on my face?”

“I forgot you actually have a whole face,” Jin Ling says.

Zizhen, seated beside Jin Ling and opposite Jingyi and Sizhui, pulls away from a conversation with another disciple. “Oh—Jingyi-xiong, what a pretty comb! You look different, but not in a bad way at all!”

Zizhen’s naturally boisterous voice has the nearby disciples turning to look at Jingyi.

“Indeed, the style flatters you, Young Master Lan!”

“What a lovely piece!”

“Y-You look very elegant!”

That last comment blurted out by a rapidly reddening disciple from the Yao sect invites a chorus of oooh and teasing laughter. Jingyi is rarely shy but he also rarely receives such compliments. Being best friends with Lan Sizhui, the number one ranked cultivator in their generation, all but ensures most attention is directed away from him. Heat immediately bursts in his cheeks and he ducks his head before remembering that his expression must be on full view.

Thankfully, the other disciples turn back to their own conversations with no further comment, though Jin Ling has not stopped analyzing Jingyi with narrowed eyes.

At his side, Sizhui has paused, chopsticks hovering atop a platter of fried chicken. Then he gives himself a tiny shake before carefully placing a large chicken wing in Jingyi’s bowl.

“Eh? You don’t want it?” It must be the choice piece of the whole platter, perfectly golden and crispy.

Sizhui shakes his head. “You first.”

Jin Ling makes a strangled sound, causing a startled Zizhen to pour a cup of tea, but Jingyi bumps elbows with Sizhui and starts eating with unabashed happiness.

The food is delicious, the air full of satisfied voices, and at some point Jingyi finds himself slumped languidly. At dawn they will have to journey back to the Cloud Recesses, and he wants to enjoy this rare time of relaxation.

Throughout dinner, Jin Ling and Sizhui have this weird staring contest as if trying to communicate solely through eye contact, Sizhui arching his eyebrows in response to Jin Ling’s ever-narrowing glares. Jingyi has to resist the urge to poke Jin Ling between his scrunched brows, right on that vibrant vermillion mark. He did it once before out of pure curiosity. Jin Ling’s aghast expression was worth the week-long punishment Hanguang-jun gave him for both the action and running through the Cloud Recesses in wild hysterics.

But he’s much too comfortable to rile up the Young Mistress tonight, so he busies himself instead with talking to Zizhen, who eagerly updates him on his progress as sect heir of Baling Ouyang.

Zizhen’s been a constant in their night-hunts ever since their harrowing adventure at Yi City. Where Jingyi is boisterous, Sizhui is attentive, and Jin Ling is resolute, Zizhen is driven, his streak of romanticism having never truly faded over the years, but rather matured into a sense of thoughtful optimism that inspires positivity in others.

“Father said I should be taking over some of the training duties next year,” Zizhen says. “Can you imagine me trying to teach classes? I almost didn’t believe it until he told me to submit a syllabus proposal.”

“You’ll be a good teacher,” Jingyi says and it’s the truth. Zizhen is experienced and good with people. There’s no doubt in Jingyi’s mind that the new Baling Ouyang disciples will learn much from him. “Sizhui is covering some of the junior classes at Gusu, maybe you can ask him for advice also?”

“Sizhui-xiong’s already teaching before he’s a senior?” Zizhen sighs good-naturedly and lifts his cup. “So impressive.”

Jingyi says without thinking, “Of course! He’s number one among young men for a reason.”

Jin Ling’s chopsticks click loudly. Sizhui coughs and fumbles for tea.

“Why, it’s no wonder, with his good looks and top grades and night-hunting prowess—”

“Jingyi,” Sizhui says, a faint dusting of pink appearing in his cheeks.

He throws an arm around Sizhui’s shoulders. “It’s true! Can’t I be proud of my best friend?”

Sizhui cups his free hand at Jingyi’s waist to steady him. “You can, but your best friend thinks it’s time for bed.”

It’s been well past curfew for a while and they both know it. But the last thing Jingyi wants tomorrow is to wake up tired and accidentally fall asleep on his sword on the way to Gusu. It hasn’t happened yet, but there’s no need to court such a possibility after a successful night-hunt. He’ll never live it down especially if Senior Wei catches wind of it.

They bid goodnight to the other disciples before ascending the stairs to their room. Jingyi notices Jin Ling gaping at him—it’s starting to become a little bit unnerving, even for the Young Mistress—and Zizhen pulling frantically at Jin Ling’s sleeve. The two turn to each other almost in unison, but what they’re talking about escapes Jingyi’s senses.

“Did you notice Jin Ling acting weird?” Jingyi asks as he and Sizhui prepare for bed.

Sizhui is removing his outer robes, headpiece already put aside. “No, why?”

“He was staring a lot for some reason.” Jingyi goes to remove his headpiece. His fingers bump against Sizhui’s gift. “Maybe it’s because I’m wearing my hair up? Do I really look that strange?”

“Not at all. It suits you.”

Jingyi pouts. “You’re just saying that.”

Sizhui crosses the distance between them, disrobed and graceful. The mild aroma of tea and sandalwood clinging to his inner robes has Jingyi tilting forward in appreciation.

Gentle fingers relieve his hair of the comb, just barely pulling so as to not catch any strands. The headpiece follows and finds a place on the bedside table. His long bangs fall in thin waves over his shoulder before Sizhui glides the comb over them.

They’ve shared rooms since childhood, and it was natural to seamlessly transition that into their night-hunts. Sizhui combing his hair has become a steady routine since their early junior years, something that marks the official winding-down of the day. Jingyi wonders if he does it because Jingyi’s more inclined to attack his hair with an aggression that can rip out strands, and Sizhui helps him save face by avoiding bald spots, but Sizhui never complains.

If anything, he seems to like it. Jingyi often catches him with a tranquil smile when his wiry hair obediently yields to the kind, methodical strokes.

“Lying is forbidden,” Sizhui says, working out a stubborn knot, “as is being ingenuine.”

Jingyi hums low in his throat. “Then Jin Ling…”

“You could consider that you look the complete opposite of strange,” Sizhui says.

“Boring?”

Sizhui tugs with a huff. “The disciple from Yao sect was right, you know. You look good regardless, but you are even more elegant with your hair up.”

Jingyi squirms around, surprised and pleased. “You think so?”

“I’ve said so this whole time!” Sizhui exclaims. “You look very regal.”

Ah, that must be why Jin Ling observed him like he was a whole different person. For all his Lan genes and upbringing, Jingyi hardly thinks himself regal like Sizhui or Hanguang-jun.

Jingyi muses, “If I wear it at home, do you think I can fool Teacher Lan into thinking I’m more of a Lan than the most un-Lan to ever Lan?”

Sizhui takes a long moment to place the comb beside Jingyi’s headpiece, lips pursed in thought, as if Jingyi can’t clearly detect the amusement sparkling in his eyes and pulling up at the corners of his mouth.

After a full minute: “Jingyi, even cultivating to immortality won’t make Teacher Lan admit that.”

Jingyi lets out a dismayed cry. “Sizhui! You’re supposed to support me!”

“Lying is—”

“Oh, don’t you start!”

“Interrupting others is—”

“I’m fully aware of rules twelve and twenty-one, thank you!”

Sizhui laughs. It rings out sweet and warm between them, filling the spaces of their room with notes of pure joy. Jingyi’s heart gives a swift thump-thump-thump and he is helpless but to join in. He’s happy when Sizhui is like this, uninhibited by thousands of rules of etiquette and at ease in a way only Jingyi gets to see.

They both love Gusu Lan with every fiber of their beings and the Cloud Recesses is their home, but it’s nice every now and then to simply be two young men joking around.

After their laughter subsides, Sizhui reclines against the wall. The moonlight filtering through the window bestows a faint silver glow on his slightly pink cheeks and dark eyes shining with mirth. His forehead ribbon is slightly crooked, but it doesn't take away from him being the very image of serenity, the first star gracing a night sky. He’s Jingyi’s best friend, and—

Thump-thump-thump, Jingyi’s heart murmurs.

“Sizhui?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Sizhui blinks. “For what?”

“The comb—and everything else.” The words trip out of Jingyi, but he needs to say them, needs Sizhui to know that he appreciates him so much, that he’s so happy to have a constant place at Sizhui’s side when he’s such a mess some days—

“Jingyi,” Sizhui says, his voice a low and soft cadence. His hand brushes against Jingyi’s, interlocking their fingers with a butterfly’s kiss of a squeeze. “There’s no need for thanks.”

This, also, is an exchange they are long familiar with. Jingyi squeezes back just as lightly. They sit in silence, in the shared warmth of their room, in the comfort of each other’s company.

When Jingyi settles down, Sizhui’s words continue to weave fondly around his thoughts, a lullaby for rest, and he goes to sleep utterly content.

Chapter Text

Sizhui looks queasy two hours into the trip to Baling Ouyang.

It’s not a good day for traveling by water, the sky a solemn gray and the river churning hard. A storm was coming, Senior Wei said when they left Caiyi Town this morning, years of living in Lotus Pier evident in his eyes as he scrutinized the heavy clouds. He and Hanguang-jun were staying at the Cloud Recesses for some time and decided to attend the Discussion Conference to—as Senior Wei merrily put it—catch up with old friends. Teacher Lan had given a full-body twitch but said nothing otherwise.

The boat rocks through a turbulent set of waves, sending froth up the sides. Sizhui’s face spasms, fingers gripping the wooden seating tight. Jingyi is aware that if anyone except Hanguang-jun, Senior Wei, and Jingyi were on the same boat, Sizhui wouldn’t allow himself to show that kind of weakness.

He wants to scoop him up and fly him straight to dry land though Hanguang-jun will surely call him back. Jingyi knows he and Senior Wei dislike seeing Sizhui in any discomfort but flying ahead and randomly landing on Baling Ouyang’s piers without the rest of the Gusu Lan contingent on the first day of a Discussion Conference is an indecent breach of propriety no matter how Jingyi spins it.

Sizhui is strong and this is a temporary pain, so the best thing Jingyi can do is try to distract him from the shifting of the boat across choppy waters. He scoots over to gently apply pressure to Sizhui’s temple, sending little pulses of spiritual energy to help relieve the headache that he must be enduring.

Sizhui’s head makes a solid thump on Jingyi’s shoulder.

“Augh,” he groans, hot breath fanning across Jingyi’s neck.

Jingyi clicks his tongue sympathetically. Neither the years nor growth in cultivation level gave Sizhui the ability to get over his boat sickness. “We’re almost there. A bit more then we’ll get you back on solid ground, okay?”

“Ngh,” Sizhui says. “Keep talking, please?”

“That’s easy,” Jingyi teases. “Did I tell you that Zizhen kept sending me letters about the conference? Since this is Baling Ouyang’s first time hosting, he wanted to ask for advice about everything—and I mean everything, Sizhui, from what food they should serve to what colors the decorations should be to how many inches the tables should be apart—like I would know the answers!”

“Mn. And then?” Sizhui says.

“Jin Ling sent me at least a dozen letters in a row that he’s going to be helping Zizhen. Can you believe that? It’s okay though, he’s much better at this kind of thing. Remember the conference last year at Lanling Jin? Even Sect Leader Jiang was impressed! I think Senior Wei cried a bit, but he wouldn’t admit it.”

“Mmhm,” Sizhui mumbles, at the same time Senior Wei breaks away from Hanguang-jun at the front of the boat and says over his shoulder, “That’s because there was nothing to admit! There was a weird speck in my eye, that’s all! Right, Lan Zhan?”

Hanguang-jun inclines his head.

Jingyi’s cheek twitches. “Senior Wei, Hanguang-jun will always agree with you.”

“Not so!” Senior Wei, ever full of energy, bounces over though his steps are delicate and mindful of Sizhui’s condition. “Do you remember last week when I convinced Lan Qiren to let me make lunch for the new juniors? I wanted to make my special congee, but someone told me that I had to choose between one cup of peppers or paprika, and I said you had to use lots of both if you want to get that perfect flavor, and then that same someone tried to hide the bag of peppers from me, but I knew exactly how to get it back—”

Sizhui coughs, curling further into Jingyi’s shoulder.

“Ah, my Sizhui, you’re doing a very good impression of a buried radish.” Senior Wei pats Sizhui’s head then pauses, his hand on Sizhui’s hair. He blinks twice. His tone shifts into something more playful. “Stay close to Jingyi, it seems like he’s helping a lot!”

“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-jun calls.

Senior Wei winks and returns to the front of the boat, taking Hanguang-jun’s outstretched hand. He’s grinning now, to which Hanguang-jun hums before glancing at Jingyi, golden eyes cool and searching, and nodding once.

A tiny knot in Jingyi’s chest releases. He bows his head and continues delivering gentle tendrils of spiritual energy to soothe Sizhui, who has all but melted into Jingyi’s side.

“What else did Jin Ling say?” Sizhui prompts.

“Hm? Oh right.” Jingyi continues to ramble, talking about everything from Jin Ling’s overly long letters, to Teacher Lan's mildly intimidating lecture about representing Gusu Lan well at the Discussion Conference, to how Hanguang-jun’s rabbits were doing last time he visited the hutches, to his efforts at voice cultivation in his free time.

That last subject is one he rarely brings up around others, but Sizhui has been nothing but supportive since Jingyi wondered aloud about the possibility several months ago. They spent hours in the library scouring for texts and pieces that could help Jingyi get started. Despite having some of the best literary collections among the major sects, Gusu Lan severely lacks references for voice cultivation. It isn’t unheard of, but uncommon in their history due to the prodigious instrumental practices passed down from generation to generation. The guqin and xiao, among other traditional instruments employed by Gusu Lan cultivators, are far more capable of powerful spells and effects than songs.

However, there’s something fascinating about voice cultivation that draws Jingyi in, the way stories bloom to life from words intertwining and rising and falling in rhythm, how a song can make thoughts and ideas previously out of reach tangible and corporeal.

“It would be nice to hear you sing,” Sizhui murmurs.

“I like it, but it’s nothing special,” Jingyi says. And it isn’t, compared to the guqins Sizhui and Hanguang-jun wield, or Senior Wei’s dizi, or Zewu-jun’s xiao.

Sizhui makes a protesting sound. “If you are putting time and effort into it, it’s special. Cultivating with your voice has so much potential. And you enjoy it, so that’s already enough reason for me to—"

A formidable wave slaps the boat, followed by a loud thud of wood meeting wood. Sizhui cuts off, grasping Jingyi’s sleeve, for a moment sporting a look of sharp frustration.

“Sizhui-xiong! Jingyi-xiong!”

Sizhui perks up. Zizhen’s voice brings Jingyi no small amount of relief that grows when he realizes they’ve arrived at Baling Ouyang’s piers.

From behind an exasperated Sect Leader Ouyang, Zizhen waves at them with a large beaming grin. Jin Ling stands beside him, arms crossed but smiling minutely. They’re dressed in the finest robes, stately dark indigo beside rich white-and-gold, headpieces polished to shine against a stormy sky. They stand tall, noble, and—

Wistfully, with an undefinable pang, Jingyi thinks they look more like Sect Leaders than his fellow graduating juniors.

Once Zewu-jun leads them through the necessary formalities, they are escorted to the banquet hall. The banquet is already underway, servants moving fluidly around the room to serve dishes and pour tea. Jingyi spots the vivid purple of Yunmeng Jiang and the deep grays-and-browns of Qinghe Nie, Sect Leader Jiang and Sect Leader Nie already moving to intercept Senior Wei and Hanguang-jun. There are at least a dozen more sects present, cultivators from across the land mingling and talking.

“How long have you been here?” Jingyi asks Jin Ling after they take up a table.

“Since yesterday morning,” Jin Ling replies curtly. “Zizhen made it sound like the place was in shambles, but everything was fine when I arrived.”

“You weren’t there for the pre-planning,” Zizhen says, eyes going hazy at some ominous memory. “There were so many cloth patterns and taste tests… I can still see the lists—the signatures Father and I had to sign—I almost ordered the wrong type of arrows for the archery contest…”

Jin Ling grunts and elbows him. “I told you to stop thinking about it. The sooner you dump all those details out of your mind, the better.” More mildly, he adds, “Look around, you did fine. Relax already.”

Zizhen slowly smiles.

“Everything is great!” Jingyi says. “Now that you’re experienced, you can host again with no problem!”

Zizhen’s eyes fog over.

“Jingyi,” Jin Ling hisses, though it lacks heat, turning to Zizhen again.

Jingyi winces. “Probably wasn’t the best time to say that, right, Sizhui?”

No response. Jingyi looks over and his stomach drops.

Sizhui is staring down at his bowl, face paler than usual though he should have recovered from boat sickness by now. He’s worrying his bottom lip with teeth and fidgeting so imperceptibly that no one except Jingyi, sitting right by him, would notice.

Is he feeling ill? Is the food too spicy? Jingyi quickly scans the dishes but all of them appear fine. Zizhen is too aware of their experiences with spicy food to not warn them if any are being served.

“Sizhui, are you alright?” He pitches his voice low so as to not draw attention. “If you don’t feel well, we can ask permission to leave early.”

Sizhui shakes his head, dark eyes veiled. “No, it’s not that.”

“Tell me,” Jingyi urges. Sizhui rarely, if ever, shows signs of insecurity. He wants to whisk him to a private place instead of out in the open like this so he can feel more comfortable talking. “Is it bad?”

“No, no,” Sizhui hurries to reassure him. “It’s actually—it’s the opposite.” He hesitates briefly. “Do you remember how I had a private meeting with Zewu-jun yesterday?”

“Yeah, you almost missed dinner,” Jingyi says. Sizhui was gone for almost the whole afternoon. It was the longest they were apart in a while.

Sizhui bites his lip again. “The reason is that Zewu-jun asked me to attend the informal meeting today.”

Jingyi’s mind starts to race, putting together the pieces. The informal meeting is a time after the banquet for Sect Leaders and their advisors to meet in a relaxed environment, bring up matters to discuss in the official forum, and introduce prominent members such as sect heirs to the inner workings of intersect relations.

Sizhui is going to be the future Sect Leader of Gusu Lan. Everyone has known this for a long time, Jingyi for far longer even before Zewu-jun’s official announcement last year and despite the grumblings of some people.

Being of Wen blood and an adopted child, superfluous arguments made by others who refuse to move on from the past, pale in comparison to the legacy Sizhui upholds as a prime disciple, to the pride he brings to their sect by simply being himself, to his known name as the upstanding son of Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei, righteous and courteous to a fault.

The Young Jade of Lan, some people call him.

And that’s where Jingyi makes the connection, hazards a good guess on why Sizhui looks so uncertain.

That’s the thing with titles and expectations so high, so heavy, lining Sizhui’s shoulders with the hopes and burdens of others. There’s an underlying pressure that accompanies a good reputation, an ever-present reminder to preserve face, stand with honor, and show the way for others less graced or fortunate.

No one is exempt. Not Zewu-jun, or Hanguang-jun, or Teacher Lan, or even Senior Wei who lives by his own code of simple intentions. Jingyi has seen all of his seniors subject to intense scrutiny brought about by word, deed, or circumstance, or all three in Senior Wei’s case. At the same time, everyone in some way or manner exhibits pressure on those around them. For all that cultivators strive to reach immortality, they are also human, flawed and imperfect.

Giants who came before them could not avoid such forces. How can Sizhui, who aims to excel in all that he does, who thinks harshly of himself when he slips up, who believes that he must attempt perfection to make Senior Wei and Hanguang-jun’s sacrifices worth it?

Sizhui meets his gaze quietly, always willing to give Jingyi more than enough time to collect his thoughts. Jingyi takes in that face he knows as well as his own. The banquet fades away, muted in the background.

Sizhui isn’t a peerless, effortless jade as much as he tries to be—or as he thinks he should be. Oh yes, he has the looks and talents and skills, exceptional among disciples and so capable of competence in difficult subjects that even Sect Leaders and elders consider him with an approving eye.

But so little of that is born out of natural talent. Jingyi grew up with him—he’s counted the hours Sizhui spent plucking at the guqin until his fingers trembled, stopping only when Jingyi or Hanguang-jun pulled him away. Jingyi was there at every lesson, every spar, every assignment and practice session, watching Sizhui put his all into what he did. It’s not difficult to recall the times he caught Sizhui in the Library Pavilion close to curfew either working through stacks of texts or perfecting his script, adamant on absorbing every bit of knowledge and practice available.

Sizhui is more than great, but he is also stubborn as a donkey. He can rival Lil Apple if he so wants. He tries to be too good for his own good, as silly as that sounds. Too hard on himself and forgets that he has limits like everyone else, and in the same breath too quickly forgiving of others’ faults and mistakes. Often mischievous, with a penchant for subtle teasing and long-term pranks, armed with a well-rehearsed mien of innocence. Likes to laugh, sometimes snorting inelegantly, at bad jokes and puns.

(Jingyi understands why Hanguang-jun says Sizhui is also truly Senior Wei’s son.)

Of course, if Jingyi verbalizes all of this, something inside him that stirs wherever Sizhui is concerned might compel him to shout at the top of his lungs while standing on a table.

And that will absolutely cause a scandal so large, Sizhui won’t be able to save him. Zizhen might have a heart attack and Jin Ling may actually be forced to knock him out, whichever comes first.

So, he does the next best thing.

He rests his hand atop Sizhui’s. The tremors Sizhui was hiding in his sleeves stop.

“You’re not perfect, and you don’t need to be,” Jingyi says.

Sizhui’s mouth parts.

Jingyi continues, “You’re not perfect. That’s okay.”

Distantly, he’s aware of stares burning into the back of his head, but his attention is on Sizhui, who is frozen, wide-eyed, for once speechless.

“I…”

“You can just be you, and that’s enough.”

Something is rustling frantically behind him. What are Jin Ling and Zizhen doing? He wants to find out, but Sizhui is grasping his hand as if it’s the only thing holding him together.

“Jingyi, thank you.”

He tsks. “You don’t have to say that. Not to me.”

Sizhui’s smile is star-bright, and Jingyi basks in its glow for the rest of the banquet. He shrugs off Jin Ling’s pointed, open-mouthed stares and Zizhen’s strange investigative squints, chalking it up to a secret experiment going on between the two of them.

The banquet ends with a short speech from Sect Leader Ouyang about the archery competition for the young disciples and the subsequent hunt tomorrow. While everyone except Sect Leaders and heirs filters out of the hall, Jingyi gives his friends one last encouraging smile and brushes his fingers along Sizhui’s shoulder as he leaves, feeling the slightest shiver in response. He believes in Sizhui. His nerves will settle soon, and he will be fine.

Outside, the sky is still shadowed and roiling, the air thick and brimming with the promise of rain and petrichor. Jingyi draws it deep into his lungs and expels it bit by bit. The informal meeting can take a few hours and until it ends, he’s free to do whatever he wants.

A nap sounds appealing, and technically he won’t be breaking any rules since there are no official events on the first day of a Discussion Conference, but he wants to be awake for when the meeting finishes.

He skips down the stairs and admires the buildings that comprise Baling Ouyang’s central residence: geometric halls of stone slabs hugged by lines of river moss and separated by mosaic stepping-stone paths that curve around flourishing dove trees. It is so different compared to the other sects, even considering their close history with Yunmeng Jiang, and Jingyi can see why Zizhen is proud of his home.

He wanders for a bit before hearing some voices coming from behind Baling Ouyang’s library, then thwacks of wooden swords clashing. A sparring session, perhaps? He follows the sounds, coming to half-walls bracketing a wide and open space of what looks like training grounds.

A dozen Baling Ouyang students, no older than eleven or twelve, are paired up and attempting what Jingyi assumes is dueling practice. Their footwork is barely passable at best, postures so poor that they would surely send Teacher Lan to an early grave, and there’s more than one disciple with shaking arms. There doesn’t seem to be a senior disciple or supervisor around to correct their mistakes and provide guidance. They must be practicing out of their own initiative.

Jingyi can’t help but admire their tenacity as they waddle off-beat through exercises they may know by theory but will need years of continuous practice to master. He sees himself in their struggling movements, the way slow-building frustration wars with determined willpower, the desire to do more and become more at conflict with their own personal limits.

He says, “Keep your arms straight and knees bent when you parry.”

The students let out various squeaks and yelps of surprise, whirling around, some letting go of their swords, others hugging them tightly.

“Whoa, easy! If a fierce corpse sneaks up on you, is your first instinct going to be to panic and lose your sword or drop it on your foot?”

They shuffle nervously, scanning him from head to toe, no doubt noticing his forehead ribbon and cloud-patterned robes.

A boy with two braids around the crown of his head, shorter than the others, stutters, “S-Senior, there are no fierce c-corpses here in Baling Ouyang.”

Jingyi shrugs. “Maybe not on protected sect grounds, but what if you find yourself on a night-hunt and find a fierce corpse, or worse?”

This time, a girl at the back of the group raises her hand. “We’re still too young to go night-hunting, Senior. We just started learning forms last month.”

“And yet you’re all practicing without a teacher,” Jingyi says, “so surely you want to keep learning even if you’re not in the lecture room.”

A pause. Another girl speaks up, “Senior, what did you mean, keep our arms straight and knees bent?”

A dozen heads swivel toward him in unison.

With that, Jingyi finds himself drawn into an impromptu lesson on the basics of combat. He isn’t the best at this, but the very least he can do is provide some instruction on the right forms. He has them pair up again and go through each position slowly, correcting where he can (which is a lot) and praising when they improve (which is even more, these kids are fast learners). Despite the many differences between Gusu Lan and Baling Ouyang’s fighting styles, the foundations are the same.

The lesson rolls easily past midday. It hasn’t rained, despite some of the students mentioning it will very soon, so none of them bother to go indoors. Jingyi doesn’t expect to enjoy discussing and demonstrating the arts involved in cultivation as much as he does. The students are curious and enthusiastic, plying him with questions about his experiences as a disciple, the less harrowing of which he elects to tell. There’s a rush of satisfaction when he can answer a question or clarify a hard topic. Is this why Sizhui likes teaching so much?

“Jingyi, there you are!”

Speaking of Sizhui, Jingyi’s heart leaps as his best friend, followed by Jin Ling and Zizhen, rounds the corner of the library and heads straight for him.

Sizhui looks pleased, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, almost walking with a skip. It’s one of most lively occasions Jingyi has seen him.

“How did the meeting go?” he asks, rising to meet them.

“Normal as expected,” Jin Ling scoffs, “but with these two standing on ceremony the whole time, you’d think there was some special grand event going on.”

Zizhen scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Father had to tell me to meditate internally so I’d stop being so tense.”

Sizhui is about to say something when he glances behind Jingyi. “Oh, did we interrupt something?”

The Baling Ouyang students, who Jingyi didn’t notice have gathered behind him like ducklings, bow low and murmur shy greetings.

“Jingyi-xiong, were you teaching?” Zizhen asks, delighted.

“Do you want to teach, Jingyi?” Sizhui says at the same time Jin Ling goes, “What did you put in their heads?”

“Senior was very kind,” says the boy with braids. “He helped us learn how to parry!”

“He also showed us how to step lightly so we don’t trip!”

“I learned how to tell the difference between fierce corpses and ferocious ghosts!”

“I learned to never eat food that has more than one pepper!”

These kids, Jingyi thinks fondly. It must show on his face because Jin Ling raises a brow.

“It sounds like you’ve been busy. Why not give them a demonstration?”

“What?”

“It would be great for them to see theory in action, Jingyi-xiong,” Zizhen agrees, “but only if you want to!”

Jingyi’s chest clenches. He doesn’t mind at all, but him demonstrating when Sizhui and Jin Ling, among the finest at swordplay and archery respectively in their generation, are right there seems like a waste of time. “I…”

Sizhui brushes his hand along Jingyi’s knuckles. “You can do it.”

Sometimes, all it takes are a few kind words.

Thump-thump-thump, Jingyi’s heart goes. It lets go of a tight knot buried deep inside, granting him the courage to ask Sizhui, “Be my partner?”

A honey-sweet, soft smile is his reward for such boldness. “Yes, of course.”

A storm rumbles to life above as they take position, facing each other with swords raised. The wind whistles as sharp as a guqin’s twang. It whips the tails of their ribbons around, though it can’t dislodge Jingyi’s bangs from where they’re secured snugly with Sizhui’s comb.

He is calm. In this, he has nothing to fear. Not with Sizhui looking at him like he’s the only other person in the world.

Lightning sears the sky open.

They move.

Thunder echoes in the clash of their swords. Dust swirls up to grasp white robes, easily avoided and forgotten. Cold torrents of rain begin to strike down but do little to dissuade them. Blades glint and slice in blurring arcs and leave afterimages of silver steel in the air. There’s the fierce give-and-take of force and pressure, yielding and seizing in the same measure, a dance whose steps can both shake the ground apart and remake it.

They are not like the legends who came before them, but Jingyi thinks they don’t need to be.

It lasts ten minutes at most. To Jingyi, it may as well have been an eternity. His sword rests against Sizhui’s, gleaming in the dull rain.

Tiny crystal drops cling to Sizhui’s long eyelashes, the curve of his lips, his cheekbones. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, and his eyes are burning with an inscrutable emotion, and—

Jingyi breathes and shakes, fingers and toes tingling, drenched beyond hope, breathless in a way not caused by their spar, and utterly—wholly—fully euphoric.

He wants to linger in the standstill, wants to stand in the heavy rain with Sizhui for as long as he can.

Jin Ling and Zizhen drag them under a dry pavilion, Jin Ling red with exasperation as he yanks towels over them. Zizhen pushes hot cups of tea into their hands. The students crowd around them with high-pitched exclamations and endless questions. Sizhui leans into him as they all sit to wait out the rain.

The part of Jingyi that is often restless and anxious relaxes, soothed by good company and Sizhui’s warmth.

This—this is more than enough.       

Chapter Text

Jingyi hears about Sizhui’s courtship in a crowded teahouse the day before the Mid-Autumn Festival.

Caiyi Town is playing host to large groups of travelers, locals, and visitors alike. The changing of the seasons, heralded by the riverside trees shedding their glossy greens in exchange for rich golds and reds that shimmer with the cool breezes sweeping in from the mountainside, drapes the small town in an aura of pristine beauty and wonder. The fruits of the harvest season ripen and sweeten the air, and after the sun dips below the horizon, stringed lanterns and music come to life along the streets, making the place the prime destination for families with children, couples, and those seeking respite after long days of work or travel on winding roads.

Around this time, and certainly on the day of the Mid-Autumn Festival, Gusu Lan allows its disciples and visiting students to relax and engage in the festivities. Classes end early in the week and as long as other duties are finished, they can do as they pleased, within reason, of course.

Usually, Jingyi will take advantage of this and drag Sizhui to Caiyi Town to spend the whole day there in anticipation of the celebrations tomorrow, but Sizhui has been in a meeting with Teacher Lan and Zewu-jun since breakfast.

“Please don’t wait for me,” Sizhui told him that morning when they were dressing in their room. “I’m not sure how long the meeting will take. I’d rather you go and enjoy the day and I’ll catch up as soon as I can.”

“What can I enjoy without you?” Jingyi replied bluntly because it was true. Going alone was not nearly as fun as going with Sizhui, Zizhen, and Jin Ling, and the latter two were spending the week together in Lanling Jin.

“Jingyi,” Sizhui stressed as if pained, though his eyes were warm. He went to finish their morning routine: taking the comb that was now a permanent addition to Jingyi’s attire and sweeping his bangs up to pin them in place.

Nimble fingers grazed above Jingyi’s forehead ribbon and caught wayward strands. His breath hitched. Sizhui gazed at him with a curious yet content expression. Sparks danced up his back and an odd shyness fluttered in his chest. It’s been happening more often since the Discussion Conference several months ago, especially in moments like these where it was just the two of them, where he felt like they’re about to bridge an unspoken precipice, teetering on the edge of change, and if he can only take that next step forward, Sizhui might just meet him in the middle and—

“I’ll wait for you,” he insisted.

Sizhui sighed but smiled, fingertips brushing the curve of Jingyi’s heated cheeks before falling away. “Then I’ll count the minutes until we can be together.”

Jingyi couldn’t hold back a strangled choke that must have been incredibly unattractive and ungainly. What can he think, what can he say in response to that, but Sizhui didn’t seem to mind, smiling wider before leading him out their rooms and into the sunlight.

It’s barely ten minutes after Sizhui goes into his meeting when Senior Wei arrives, glances at the main hall then back at Jingyi, and promptly sends him out on an errand.

“Peppers, fresh peppers, as many varieties and as much as you can get, Jingyi. I expect lots since you’ve done so many handstands before. Here—” Hanguang-jun’s money pouch is shoved into his hands— “Be a good boy and run along now. But don’t rush! Take your time, I want the very best you can find, okay?”

“E-Eh? Senior Wei, Sizhui and I were planning on—” Jingyi starts.

Senior Wei smushes his finger against Jingyi’s lips, effectively shutting him up. “You and Sizhui can have your special alone time later! This is very important. I need the freshest and best peppers for tonight’s dinner, so make sure you study each one very closely. Shoo!”

Before Jingyi can question anything Senior Wei is saying (like why he needs peppers for dinner when Hanguang-jun usually takes him out to Caiyi Town every night the week of the Mid-Autumn Festival, and what does he mean by special alone time) he is ushered to the gates, patted on the head, and left with the sight of Senior Wei dashing up the stairs, looking excited for some reason Jingyi doesn’t want to think about. He exchanges helpless glances with the disciples on guard duty before accepting his fate with a loud sigh.

Which led to where he’s sitting now in one of Caiyi Town’s teahouses, four bulging bags of peppers sitting at his feet, wondering if taking a short break before returning to the Cloud Recesses is shaping up to be one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

The table of gossiping patrons is only several tables behind him, but the place is so crowded with folks coming in and out by the minute that they must not have spotted his telltale white robes and sword.

“Did you hear, the Young Jade of Lan may be engaged soon!”

Jingyi turns cold as sharp clinks of ceramic pierce the din. His hands go limp around a cup of tea.

“Hanguang-jun and Wei Wuxian’s son?”

“Sect Leader Lan’s successor?”

“Is there any other? I have it on good authority that there have been ongoing talks of a very serious union. I’ve been told we may see a spring wedding, summer at the latest!”

Soft gasps of awe, though someone says, “Ah, but that is so soon for such an early engagement, especially one that has not been announced yet. And the Young Jade is exactly that—young. What of his partner? Surely they will wait longer as appropriate?”

“Forgive me, I must add that the Young Jade of Lan has been courting his partner for some time already. I’ve heard that most of the cultivation sects have been aware of this potential union since the summer meeting in Baling Ouyang.”

Murmurs of wonder and deliberation. Jingyi has to force himself to inhale, exhale, do it again. His limbs feel oddly disconnected from the rest of his body. Sizhui looked so happy after the informal meeting and was cheerful for the rest of the Discussion Conference. Is this the reason—

“Oh, tell, who is the Young Master courting? They must be truly impressive to catch his eye when there are so many potential partners in his generation.”

Who could it be? Does Jingyi know them? He hides nothing from Sizhui, and Sizhui’s never hesitated to confide in him, and there’s only so many people of their age and position that Sizhui engages with regularly—

“Indeed, they must be very beautiful and graceful to match him. What else could compel him to marry someone so soon after the engagement? They must be an equal, nothing less.”

“Not to mention spectacular enough to earn such fuss in Gusu Lan of all sects!”

“Well, you see—”

Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. Jingyi stands, pays a bit more than what is owed, and leaves the teahouse clutching the bags of peppers. His cheeks and eyes are hot, his shoulders holding a tremor he can’t pinpoint the source of, and his chest is stinging from the heavy thrash of his heart.

For the first half-second after he steps into the street, all he can hear are his own frantic thoughts tumbling over themselves.

Is it possible? Is it true? Is Sizhui not only courting someone, but has been for a while, and other people have known? How could he have missed it? Was he not paying attention?

Will Sizhui get engaged and marry someone soon? Inexplicably, it snatches the breath out of his lungs.

Then twenty years of Gusu Lan upbringing kick in. Do not act rashly. Do not assume. Do not let extreme emotions to cloud your judgment. Do not act upon unsubstantiated claims.

His back straightens with an audible snap. The tremble weighing his shoulders down lifts. His breathing comes even and paced, clearing his head of the fog of near-panic instigated by shock, by a twist of his whole world.

His heart and his mind go quiet. His body moves on instinct. He mounts his sword, repeating the words he’s known since childhood again and again on the way back to the Cloud Recesses, shutting his eyes against the cold sting of the wind and the unfathomable ache in his chest.

When he arrives at the Cloud Recesses and discovers that both Senior Wei and Hanguang-jun are in a meeting (was everyone in a meeting today?) and Sizhui was still not dismissed, he delivers the peppers to the kitchen and makes his way to one place he can wait, think, and collect himself in peace.

Hanguang-jun’s rabbits claim residence of all the back mountain, little bundles of white, black, and gray hopping among the grasses and patches of wildflowers kept untamed for their leisure. The pair that Senior Wei gifted Hanguang-jun so many years ago may have passed on, but their descendants continue to bring happiness and a sense of tranquility to those who visit the meadow, a delight for sect disciples and visitors alike.

Jingyi settles on a sun-warmed spot of short grass. A handful of rabbits circle him curiously before one decides to burrow into the bend of his knee, prompting the others to follow suit and find their own niches around his legs and on his lap. He can’t help but laugh, soft so as to not scare them away, and pets their fur gently.

In the gentle sway of the meadow at midday, surrounded by rabbits that bump his hands for scratches, Jingyi breathes.

And he sings.

It’s a wordless tune that lacks elegant rhythm or detailed verses—more of a hum given voice, rising from the grass to be whisked away by the breeze—but it allows the questions he’s kept at the back of his throat until now space to move, to reveal themselves in the crescendo of this little song, to seek out a temporary place where they can be heard and acknowledged.

Is it possible, is it true, that you love someone so much, you wish to marry them as soon as you can?

Who did you fall in love with? When? How did you meet? We hide nothing from each other, why didn’t you tell me?

All of Sizhui’s meetings with Teacher Lan and Zewu-jun, more frequent since the Discussion Conference.

All the brief moments in which their seniors and fellow peers look at Sizhui with expectancy, as if just waiting.

All the times Jingyi’s caught him with a wistful expression, full of yearning and hope.

Little details woven into the background of their lives, now as clear as day.

Surely realizing such things would lend him some semblance of comfort, that this is not a random development, that the clues have been there all along, and if he musters the courage to ask for clarification and Sizhui tells him it’s all true, that he’s been courting someone and wants to be with them, wants to marry them and be their cultivation partner, then—

Jingyi will be so happy for him.

He will, really.

His voice wavers. The rabbits flick their ears at his hands. He pushes on, adding low vibratos and notes that sustain.

He will be happy because it’s the least he can do for Sizhui, who gives everything he can and asks for nothing in return.

Love is often complicated when members of the Lan clan are involved. They tend to fall in love so easily, and love so devotedly, for only ever one person. As many happy endings as Jingyi has read in the Library Pavilion like Lan An’s, there are just as many tragic ones like Qingheng-jun’s, and ones with bittersweet almosts and maybes and perhapses, in other lifetimes like Zewu-jun’s.

Then there’s Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei, whose story defies all expectations and impossibilities. They wrote their own ending with blood and sweat and tears, and they made their own epilogue wherein they can treat each other with the utmost tenderness. Jingyi is aware of how immensely lucky his generation is, that they are able to experience love in their youth the way their seniors were robbed of because of war and everything that came after.

Sizhui deserves a happy love story.

I'll count the minutes until we can be together. Sizhui must have practiced that given the ease with which he said it. Ah, how lucky Sizhui’s partner is, to have someone so sweet and open with his affection.

How lucky Jingyi has been, to be witness to it.

The song cracks, a sharp quiver. His throat is sore. He blinks away pressure at the corners of his eyes. His heart pushes past a painful throb.

Sizhui deserves a happy love story, and if he wants to keep its making under wraps until the time is right to reveal it to everyone, including Jingyi, Jingyi will respect that. He won’t make Sizhui feel embarrassed or incapable of handling himself by being presented with rumors of his courtship, which Jingyi should have never listened to in the first place.

He will wait patiently, listen to the story as its tellers want it told, and rejoice in a happy ending.

He raises his chin and sings one last note, a final punctuation, a small offer and a promise, lifting it to the sun and feeling it dissipate under its warmth.

The meadow is quiet. The rabbits have gone still in his lap.

“Jingyi?”

Sizhui’s voice washes from behind him like cold water, and he closes his eyes, just for a heartbeat.

“Sizhui.” The ache of his song lingers in his mouth, rendering it slow and clumsy. It comes out rough, patchwork and wrought at the seams, but together for the most part. It has to be enough for now.

A familiar bulk fills the space beside him. The weight of Sizhui’s gaze is noticeable, never heavy, but absolutely there. Then long fingers come to rest at his chin, ever so gently pulling. He gives in to them, opens his eyes to Sizhui’s worried frown.

“Jingyi, what’s wrong? What happened?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong.” He wraps a hand around Sizhui’s wrist, not pulling it away yet.

"Something is," Sizhui says quietly. 

Jingyi shakes his head again. A long minute drags by, but Sizhui is silent. Jingyi is stalling in vain. He knows Sizhui won't relent until he explains or distracts him. 

“Sizhui, are you happy?” he asks when the quiet becomes too much to bear. He can let himself ask this, he thinks, because Sizhui's happiness is worth anything. Everything. 

Sizhui’s frown deepens and he immediately says, “No.”

Jingyi blinks. “N-No?”

“How can I be when you’re unhappy?”

Jingyi swallows hard. “I’m not.”

Sizhui’s hands drop to cover his clenched fists, thumbs rubbing over his knuckles. “Then why is your song so sad?”

Was it sad? He didn’t notice. It shouldn’t be, it has no lyrics to imply as such. It's just the accumulation of his thoughts, a melody lacking rhyme or reason. He stares at Sizhui helplessly, wanting to ask, not wanting to know because it’s not his place to know before Sizhui is ready. Sizhui is waiting for him to say something, but for once, he doesn’t have the words.

In the end, Sizhui doesn’t seem to need them. He simply sets the rabbits aside, pulls Jingyi close, and embraces him. He surrounds him with the scent of the tea they shared that morning, with a warmth so readily given Jingyi wants to both celebrate and lament Sizhui’s compassionate nature.

Jingyi hopes that Sizhui's partner will always appreciate that part of Sizhui, that they are kind and strong and so good like him, that they will treat with him with the care and respect that Jingyi knows Sizhui will unconditionally show them. 

He hopes that when he reads about their story in the Library Archives years from now, he will be able to smile at the warmth of a happy ending. 

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Sizhui whispers, cradling Jingyi not like he’s fragile or about to shatter into a thousand pieces, but like he’s precious.  

He presses his ear above Sizhui’s heart, counts the solid rhythm of its beats, savors this blessing because soon, it will belong to someone else exclusively.

And that’s okay, as long as Sizhui wants it to be so.

“I will.”

(On the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, after the mooncakes and melodies and memories find their place in Jingyi’s heart, as he and Sizhui release their lantern into a sky glowing with stars and countless wishes pressed within delicate paper, Jingyi folds his hands together and prays for the health and happiness of his family, for the safety and success of his friends, for the strength and wisdom to stay on the right path—

—and for a happy ending to Sizhui’s story.)

Chapter Text

When it comes to night-hunts, Jingyi can safely say he’s grown in leaps and bounds compared to his early junior days, both in his cultivation powers and his ability to not be shaken by the creatures that lurk in the shadows or the circumstances that put those creatures there. When he ventures out with the other disciples, his sword shines bright in the darkness, and his talismans and seals more often than not hold true. It's a rush of satisfaction, that he can contribute to the group night-hunts and earn his friends’ smiles and safety.

With Sizhui, Jin Ling, and Zizhen, their spiritual energies strong and firm around him, he learned to no longer fear night-hunts, to trust in the lessons he’s been taught and the practices he put years of work into. To trust not only himself but also his friends, that they won’t leave him in the dark. It’s even better when Wen Ning joins them, a stalwart guardian whose mere presence is enough to settle any anxiety Jingyi may still have.

But there’s something about today’s night-hunt that makes him tense.

They’re standing in the middle of a foggy clearing at the mouth of a mountain-pass near a remote village between Lanling and Gusu. Snow is coming down in puffy swirls and dusting the world with pristine white, dimming the already faint sunlight above. It’s the kind of snowfall that’s gentle and light at first glance, but can slowly expand and cover everything in thick layers. It’s crisp-smelling and clean and can easily draw a person into a sense of security and wonder.

It’s the kind that can trap and take.

“The reports said the creature uses the snowfall as a cover,” Jin Ling says, scanning the area, a gleaming golden arrow nocked at the ready. “Some rogue cultivators said they tried tracking it down, but it hides from large groups and whatever tracks are left behind get covered up quickly.”

A wintry wind howls, the haunting sound exacerbated by the steep mountain walls, cutting to the bone. Jingyi shivers and huddles deeper into his fur-lined hood. Whatever is here has claimed the lives of five people from a nearby village under Lanling Jin’s jurisdiction over the span of two days, leaving no bodies behind and prompting Jin Ling to take care of it himself.

Zizhen was already on his way by the time Sizhui and Jingyi got the request for support. Senior Wei sought out Wen Ning to join them in case it was more than they could handle, but the urgency of the situation had them setting out ahead of him, and he won’t arrive for a while.

“A snow beast or ice demon?” Sizhui asks.

“We’re going to find out,” Jin Ling says briskly. “Let’s pair up and go antiparallel around the entrance. See if it comes out. If not, we’ll meet in the middle and decide from there.”

It’s as good a plan as any, so Jingyi goes with Sizhui as Jin Ling and Zizhen head in the other direction. Jingyi resists the urge to call Jin Ling and Zizhen back, to pull them into the safety of a group, but if what Jin Ling said is true, they need to be separated to lure the creature out. He watches their silhouettes get smaller and smaller until they are specks blurred by flurries of white.

“They’ll be okay,” Sizhui says, giving him a small smile. Jingyi relaxes and grins back. Jin Ling is the top archer in their generation and Zizhen has the best intuition and sensitivity to energy out of all of them. They’ll take care of each other as they always do.

“Yeah, I know.”

It’s quiet. Being with Sizhui should be enough to soothe the unease in Jingyi’s stomach, but the snow seems to shift and curl around their legs like living things, thin nails of icy cold catching the ends of their cloaks. Frosted movements flick at the corners of his eyes but when he turns to look, there’s nothing but untouched hills of snow that now reach their calves.

When they are halfway around the perimeter, the icy wind starts picking up and Sizhui throws a pensive look over his shoulder. It’s the expression he has when he’s not exactly worried, but getting to it. Jingyi nudges his shoulder, wanting to reassure him. Sizhui’s face relaxes and he takes Jingyi’s hand, the contact familiar but unexpected.

“Are you warm enough?” Sizhui asks softly.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me,” Jingyi says, squeezing his hand. “What do you think is out there?”

“I’m not sure. There are no imprints from corpses or demons. There’s no sign of the villagers’ bodies, either. If we can’t find it, I’ll play Inquiry. And if a blizzard starts, we’ll come back at a safer time.”

His words are a balm to Jingyi’s nerves. He nods, for some reason not wanting to let go of Sizhui’s hand. Sizhui doesn’t seem to mind, in fact pulling him closer so their arms are pressed in an unbroken line as they keep walking. Jingyi doesn’t question it, keeping one eye on their surroundings and the other on Sizhui’s calm face.

Their relationship has been… different since the Mid-Autumn Festival. Different in a way he can’t really explain. There’s a strange sort of tension between them—a wordless shift that’s left Jingyi feeling like they’re both waiting for something to happen, for the other to say something about the air of expectancy that makes itself known in quiet moments between duties and daily on-goings, when they are alone and look at each other for long stretches of time, as if for no other reason than to simply look.

Jingyi can’t figure it out. When he thinks about the time they spend together, little has changed. He helps Sizhui put on his elaborate sect heir headpiece in the morning, and Sizhui slowly combs his hair before they go to bed. They attend meals and lessons, feed the rabbits every afternoon, and exercise meditation and swordplay as they’ve always done. He attends Sizhui’s classes, to the delight of the younger disciples who apparently love listening to him talk about night-hunts and adventures, and Sizhui joins him when he goes to the back-mountain to practice voice cultivation, Hanguang-jun’s rabbits long adapted to the two of them taking up space on the grass. Such things are routine for them.

Yet, those moments feel charged now. When Sizhui takes care of his hair and tugs on the stubborn strands, Jingyi is overcome by deep shivers that come out of nowhere. When he touches Sizhui on the shoulder or forearm to get his attention, Sizhui’s earnest attentiveness makes him feel giddy and exhilarated. When they spar on the training grounds, the heat in Sizhui’s eyes has him tripping over his own feet. When he sings in the peace of the meadow and Sizhui listens before joining him on the guqin, the way the rich and playful notes intertwine together leave him breathless.

And to add to the list of things that keep Jingyi up past curfew, lying in bed with an oddly warm face and unusually fast heartbeat and too many thoughts swirling in his head to keep track of, the entirety of Gusu Lan seems to have caught onto this change.

Zewu-jun often sends him these enigmatic smiles as if partaking in an unspoken secret. Senior Wei hugs him every time Jingyi sees him and Hanguang-jun, who regards Jingyi with the most openly pleased expression he’s ever seen on the man. The seniors and other juniors give him approving nods or pats on the back, while his shidi and shimei don’t even try to hide their grins when he co-lectures their classes with Sizhui. Teacher Lan, of all people, looks less agitated when speaking with Jingyi, and that itself speaks volumes.

It’s all so confusing. Everyone has been so confusing. Jingyi wants to shake every person in the Cloud Recesses and beg them for answers.

But what’s even more confusing, what truly has Jingyi tossing and turning in the late night, is that Sizhui hasn’t announced his courtship yet. It’s remained in the back of his mind since the end of autumn, teased his imagination with the image of Sizhui and his partner draped in radiant red silk against a backdrop of blooming trees with all of Gusu Lan in attendance.

His chest squeezes as it's been wont to do these past weeks when thinking about Sizhui’s courtship.

Courtship, engagement, marriage—he adores books detailing grand adventures and sweeping stories of love and romance, but he still never expected it to happen so soon to someone so close to him.

Sizhui will tell everyone when he’s ready, Jingyi reminds himself. And when he does, Jingyi will congratulate him the loudest and hug him the tightest of all before—before he has to let him go.

He breathes in the bitter cold and lets it sharpen his senses, putting his mind back to the task at hand. They’ve been walking for a while now and are almost at the endpoint of the perimeter. Crystal curtains of snow continue to drop, painting the sky and mountain-pass ridges in broad white brushstrokes. Pillowy mounds build up around them, covering up their earlier footsteps.

“See anything?”

Jingyi squints through the haze. He can hardly make out the crests of the mountain peaks or the scraggly arms of dead trees. Stretching out his spiritual energy reveals old imprints of animals that passed by the area, faint hints of neutral human activity, dormant roots waiting for spring. “Nothing.”

“Okay. Let’s go back.”

For a few minutes, there are no sounds except for their crunching footsteps.

Sizhui exhales shakily and tugs on his hand. “Jingyi?”

“Hm?”

“I was wondering—”

The wind howls, shattering the air. It’s the shriek of a beast and it echoes hard. The hairs on the back of Jingyi’s neck rise. It’s not the sound a human can or should make. His stomach jumps as Sizhui seizes his arm and pulls him into his side. Sizhui’s face is cool with concentration, but his jaw is set hard.

Another howl reverberates through the mountain range and almost pushes them back with its force. He reaches for his sword, about to shout for Jin Ling and Zizhen.

Across the clearing, pure golden light erupts and forms a gilded dome of energy that swiftly dissipates. Sharp cracks of activated talismans follow, then sparks of bright indigo.

They’re running forward before the lights have the chance to fade. The snow-wind roars and surges up, lunging through Jingyi’s cloak to strain against his arms and legs. Clouds of snow churn up in front of them, obscuring their vision. It’s so cold his lip slices open. He grunts but forces himself onward, Sizhui keeping pace right beside him.

They feel the resentful energy before they can see what’s exuding it. There’s bloodlust, and rage, and a dark miasma of animalistic, gnawing hunger that knows no relief, so heavy and pervading that it almost clogs up putrid and decaying at the back of Jingyi’s throat.

They burst through the chilling mist and stop at the edge of the cleared ground, catching the attention of the beast.

The wolf-monster is massive, built from sheer hulking muscle and so broad that its shadow falls across both him and Sizhui. Its thick white fur is pocketed by arrows and telltale scorch marks of talismans. Its black eyes are wild with the instinct to hunt, bloody saliva dripping from its lolling mouth. Resentful energy clings to its claws and stains them with shadows.

Jingyi forces his fingers to stop shaking and unsheathes his sword. Animals filled with resentful energy that grow to be this enormous are rare in the major cities, where many cultivators can easily handle monsters in the early stages of growth. But it’s not the same for distant, less-traveled places like this mountain-pass, where it’s easy for a person to underestimate the forces of nature, succumb to injury, attack, or illness, and die fearfully with regrets and no way out of a furious winter blizzard. It’s even easier for an animal to come across a snow-buried corpse and feast, absorbing the resentful energy until it merged with its own hunger.

The wolf throws its head back and howls, the same ravenous sound as before that shakes the ground. On its other side, Jingyi sees Jin Ling aiming an arrow and Zizhen preparing another set of talismans, both pale and grim but unharmed.

The wolf ends its howl and leaps, lunging for Jingyi and Sizhui. It’s fast, blending almost perfectly with the snow.

Sizhui’s sword carves a clean line across its snout the same time a gleaming arrow and crackling talisman find its legs. It wails and rages, claws ripping up shards of frozen soil as it regains its balance. It’s moving too fast for an array. If they can stop its erratic movements and knock it down to its side, they can finish it off quickly. He shares a look with Sizhui who nods.

He flings out three seals infused with spiritual energy, aiming for the wolf’s open side. It stumbles again, snarling, then rights itself with a powerful whip of its tail. Its whole body pulsates with blistering tendrils of resentful energy.

It is starving and will not stop until it feasts.

Again.

Jin Ling and Zizhen focus on its left side, alternating between golden arrows and powerful talismans that rip through the waves of resentful energy on impact, some swallowed up hungrily by the growing shadows melding with the wolf’s fur. Sizhui and Jingyi’s spells and slashes drive it further toward a wall where the mountain wall slopes in and creates a concavity.

The wolf howls long and horrible as they force it back in a blur of silver steel and golden arrows and shining talismans. Jingyi is reaching for another seal when, too close to them for comfort, there are resounding howls.

His blood turns cold when the wolf answers in full, each quavering note tinged with strength and rising power.

How could he forget that wolves rarely hunt alone?

Jin Ling curses. “Hurry! Finish it off—”

It’s too late. Three silhouettes crash into the clearing, snarling and howling and snapping at the snow now plummeting from the sky. They are much smaller but just feral as the first one, dripping with resentful energy, driven by the need to track and hunt and eat.

Jingyi trembles. They can’t fight off three more monsters at the same time.

Their howls join into an unholy cacophony, a fearsome harmonization, and that’s when Jingyi hears the resonance of notes binding the sounds together, picks up on the way energy rushes through each howl and growl, and realizes with stunning, perfect clarity, what he can do.

“Jingyi, what are you doing?” Sizhui cries out when he breaks from the group, running instead to the other side of the clearing, but there’s no time to explain. The pack ignores him in favor of the first wolf’s calls, making the ground shudder with the force of their run.

Jingyi fills his lungs with icy air and opens his mouth.

What comes out is nothing like he’s ever practiced. It’s a haunting, low croon of a hum, a beckoning, a command to hear this and listen. It doesn’t cut through the howls like arrows or steel or seals—it curls around them, soft but resolute, trying to soothe the fury and hunger of beasts.

The wolves howl still, their heads jerking around and claws cutting into the ground but they start to inch near him, drawn to his song.

“Jingyi! Come back!”

He lifts his voice above Sizhui’s, singing slowly. The pack comes closer and closer. He must tame them. He must give his friends some time. He must keep Sizhui safe. He can see each tuft of fur flattened by the snow and wind, every drop of saliva that sizzles the fallen snow, the resentful black of their eyes. His legs shake, but he holds his ground.

Then the first wolf howls in agony, carving through Jingyi’s song and sending him stumbling back from the energy rebounding into him. His head thobs, pulses painfully, makes the world spin in a dizzying mush of white and gray. Black spots appear at the corners of his eyes. He sees Jin Ling and Zizhen finishing the last purification step on the first wolf, holding onto each other while Sizhui—

Sizhui is running toward him, shining sword drawn and talismans casting blazing streaks of light across his arm. His eyes are wide and burning and he’s shouting words Jingyi can’t make out past the ringing in his ears. What is he doing?

It’s only when he’s thrown to the ground, claws and teeth on his chest and howls in his ear, that he realizes—

His song has ended.

There is pain for an eternity. 

The trampled snow beside his head is wet and red, but the slow snowfall is gentle on his skin. Oh, it’s so hard to breathe.

A signal flare explodes in the dim sky, taking the shape of Gusu Lan clouds. He wonders if they’ve always been this blurry.

There are shouts and yells above him. A flash of dark gray and red and a familiar battle cry. When did Wen Ning get here?

There’s warmth on his face, his shoulders, his chest. He knows this warmth, the accompanying smell of tea and sandalwood beneath blood and snow. This warmth makes him feel safe and wanted. It’s never led him astray. Even now, it folds around him and tries to help.

He wants to curl into it, to hold onto it as long as he can, to keep it close before he has to let it go.

Everything hurts so, so much.

“Jingyi,” he hears, jumbled and desperate, “I’ve got you—just breathe, don’t close your eyes, Jingyi, please—”

Sizhui.

“I’m here—hang on a little longer, help is coming I promise.” Firm pressure of lips on his forehead.

It feels like a kiss. He's never been kissed before.

“Stay with me, Jingyi.”

I’d stay as long as you want me to.

I’d stay with you forever.

Sizhui, I—

Darkness rushes up to claim him, and he knows nothing else.

Chapter Text

he hears a song around him

Jingyi meets Hanguang-jun’s son when the boy is trapped under a pile of Hanguang-jun’s rabbits.

He only knows of him because the matrons mentioned him once before when he asked why Hanguang-jun was in seclusion. They answered in a slow and weird way while exchanging these complicated looks, as if they don’t know how much they could tell him, so he didn’t push it. 

Jingyi also knows that if he doesn’t rescue the boy from where he’s flailing under at least thirty rabbits, he may not make it out at all. He runs over and grabs the hand the boy managed to free, yanking as hard as he can. He hasn’t started arm training yet, but it’s enough to pull him from the pile. They tumble back on the grass and he falls on his rear with a grunt.

The boy stares at him with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

Jingyi quickly straightens up. “Are you okay? Why were you buried under Hanguang-jun’s rabbits? Are you being punished?”

The boy looks down, embarrassed. “No, Hanguang-jun said it would make me grow taller.”

Jingyi stares. Then he laughs, throwing his head back. “Hanguang-jun said that? Maybe I should have gone inside the pile too! Why were you trying to leave if it’s supposed to help you?”

“It was getting too warm,” the boy protests. “The rabbits like to jump on top of each other.”

Jingyi nods seriously. Despite their innocent and fluffy looks, Hanguang-jun’s rabbits can overwhelm anyone with sheer numbers. “Hey, I’ll stick with you, okay? To help you if you need it again.”

The boy hesitates before smiling. It’s a small thing, like he doesn’t know if he should, but it’s there and that makes Jingyi grin.

“Okay.”

Jingyi learns his name is Lan Yuan, and when he sees him in the lecture hall the next morning, sitting alone in the front despite other students already in the room, he plops down in the empty space. He happily waves in response to Lan Yuan’s surprised stare.

From the day on, they always find a way to be beside each other.

he feels like he’s heard it before

It is close to curfew when Sizhui slips into the Library Pavilion.

Jingyi startles, toppling over from his handstand and barely avoiding falling onto his last set of painstakingly copied rules. “What are you doing? I thought you were going to sleep already.”

Sizhui shakes his head. “It’s going to be dark soon.”

Oh, he knows. He’s been writing as fast as he could, getting more and more frantic every time he checked the window to see the sunlight fading and the evening shadows getting bigger. He puts on a brave face though and starts putting the brushes and books away with unsteady hands. “I’m not five anymore! I can walk back in the dark on my own.”

It’s rude and careless and he regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips. Sizhui doesn’t have to wait for him or offer to keep him company. He doesn’t have to put up with Jingyi’s constant punishments with so much patience. He doesn’t have to deal with Jingyi’s many moments of “very un-Lan” behavior as he has for almost five years. But he does, and their friendship is something that Jingyi never wants Sizhui to regret.

A hot flush of shame fills his face, but he forces himself to look directly at Sizhui and say, “I’m sorry. I’m tired and grumpy but I shouldn’t have said that. It was wrong.”

Sizhui smiles, ever gentle, and beckons. “It’s okay. Let’s go, it’s time for bed.”

Jingyi takes his hand without a second thought. “Sizhui, I really am sorry.”

“A-Yi, I know.” Sizhui squeezes his hand. “You’re forgiven. If you feel bad, you can let us walk back together, okay?”

The way back to their room is dark and cold, full of night sounds and shifting shadows, but Jingyi holds on to Sizhui’s hand and doesn’t feel as afraid.

The next day, he attends his first swordplay lesson and practices until he can barely lift his arms. One day, he vows, he will be brave enough to not be afraid, and strong enough to protect anyone afraid of the dark in return.

and even though he can’t see him

Jingyi hears Hanguang-jun’s song in the meadow.

It’s his turn to feed the rabbits, so he comes up the hill bearing a basket of vegetables when he hears the sounds of a guqin, played so eloquently that it could only be Hanguang-jun.

But the song is sad. It is so terribly, awfully sad that Jingyi has to stop walking. Not even the most sweeping or tragic romance stories he’s read in the library can compare to this.

There are no words to describe the intense longing woven into each note, the ache of loss and weight of regret, the quiet strength and stubborn, unwavering devotion that endures even until now.

There is the sweet tartness of loquats in spring, the acrid burn of a summer fire’s ash, the autumn breeze cooling bitter medicinal tea, the uncaring icy grasp of winter that feels infinitely warmer than absence.

There is grief, and there is love, and acceptance of both.

People always say Hanguang-jun looks like he lost his wife. Jingyi thinks he understands better now. He blinks back stinging tears, adjusts his grip on the basket, and waits until Hanguang-jun passes down the hill before going to feed the rabbits.

He brings it up to Sizhui later.

“Father never told me about the person he plays it for,” Sizhui admits. “I’ve tried to remember but it’s all blurry except for a few things.”

“Grass butterflies and soup,” Jingyi says, recalling the times they’ve talked about Sizhui’s past before he came to the Cloud Recesses when it became apparent years ago that, while Hanguang-jun was Sizhui’s father, Sizhui was not born Hanguang-jun’s son.

It doesn’t really matter to Jingyi. Anyone with a modicum of sense can tell that Hanguang-jun treats Sizhui like his own, and Sizhui regards Hanguang-jun as a father. That’s what matters to him. But he understands how the mystery of a forgotten life can weigh on Sizhui’s shoulders.

“Grass butterflies and soup,” Sizhui says with a small laugh that peters out. “Sometimes I wish I could remember, just so I know how to help Father when he feels alone. He doesn’t say it, but I can tell he does.”

“What kind of person can make him feel that way for so long?” Jingyi wonders.

Sizhui takes a moment to answer. When he does, his voice is wistful. “I don’t know. But he must love them very much.”

he knows the person playing it, too

He finds Sizhui in a small clearing in the pine forest surrounding the fringes of the Cloud Recesses. He is sparring with the air, the sunset over the mountains catching on his long ponytail and reflecting off the gleam of his sword. He looks regal and refined, but the triumphant feeling of finally figuring out where his best friend went after the important meeting with Zewu-jun and Teacher Lan overpowers the instinct to stop and stare in admiration.

“Aha!” he crows, pointing as Sizhui stops himself from stumbling. “I knew I’d find you here! You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice that you missed dinner, did you?”

“You caught me,” Sizhui says lightly, trying to tease back, though there’s an undercurrent of tension in his voice. “I suppose I will have to join you for handstands and copying now.”

Jingyi sniffs. “I finished mine already, so you’ll have to do yours alone.”

There’s nothing to punish, and they’d find a way to accompany each other if there was, so they’re just circling around the reason why Sizhui missed dinner. It’s not hard to guess when Teacher Lan and Zewu-jun pulled him aside several days ago to ask him about his interest in being Sect Leader one day.

Sizhui looked worried after telling him about it, the weight of their lineages hanging between them, but Jingyi assured him it was fine. Sizhui was an exceptional disciple and cultivator, one of the best in their generation, if not the best. They both knew this was going to come up sooner or later.

There’s no pushing Sizhui when he doesn’t want to talk, though, so Jingyi unsheathes his sword instead. “Let’s practice since we’re already here!”

Sizhui’s face brightens and Jingyi gives himself a mental pat on the back. They trade smooth and practiced blows until the sky is awash with rich blue and purple hues, and distant stars twinkle on the horizon. It’s a good spar; neither of them holds back and by the time they put down their swords, he is sweating in his robes. He rolls up his sleeves and loosens his outer robe collar, shrugging at Sizhui’s pointed look. The cool breeze feels good on his heated skin.

“So,” he says as they start making their way back to their quarters.

“So,” Sizhui echoes. A few beats. “I accepted. It won’t be official until after we finish our junior studies, but I’m going to start extra lessons soon.”

Jingyi pulls at Sizhui’s sleeve. They stop walking under trees blossoming in full color against the twilight sky. He turns to face Sizhui fully. “You don’t feel forced?”

Immediate and firm, “No.”

“You want to do this?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “You’re going to be a great Sect Leader, Sizhui.”

Sizhui says, “You should have the chance to be one also.”

“I still do,” Jingyi reminds him. “But you know I’d probably be terrible at it. I’ll be bored to death with all the paperwork or accidentally say something wrong at a Discussion Conference.”

“Or say something right that people need to hear.”

Jingyi snorts. “Who will tell the difference?”

Sizhui smiles, and it rivals the stars and flowers blooming above them. “I will.”

through the ups and the downs

The moment Senior Mo shows up, the careful and precise structure of their plans (and lives) is scattered to the winds. From Mo manor and the arm, to Yi City and the corpse poisoning, to the Burial Mounds and seeing the last of the Wens emerge from the pool to protect them, Jingyi keeps one hand close to Sizhui and another gripping the hilt of his sword.

It’s only the years of training hammered into his bones and the presence of the other juniors around him, as well as his own sheer willpower, that allows him to remain standing. He grits his teeth through the encounter with the goddess statue, the choking fog of Yi City and the shrill laughter of Xue Yang, the terror of being trapped in the cave with vulnerable cultivators on one side and walking corpses on the other.

Either by the grace of heavenly beings or sheer luck (or a generous combination of both) he makes it out fine, knees shaking and a little light-headed but wholly intact, and so does Sizhui. Unexpectedly, he also gains two friends in Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen. He doesn’t get along spectacularly with Jin Ling as he does with Zizhen, but at the end of the day, they all went on the same harrowing journey.

When the dust settles, he sees Sizhui and the Ghost Gen-Senior Wen watch the road where Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei took off at sunrise. Something is different now, he can tell that much. But whatever it is, he won’t assume or pry. With the spaces left behind in the cultivation world by Jin Guangyao’s revelation, there are other things to focus on. Sizhui will tell him in time.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, nudging Sizhui’s arm. “If you stay here too long, you’ll probably miss them.”

Sizhui looks conflicted. Jingyi adds, “It’s okay, Sizhui. You know where to find Gusu Lan when you’re ready.”

And I’ll be here when you are, he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t need to. They both know this.

Sizhui looks at Senior Wen, who nods once, then reaches out and grasps Jingyi’s arm. It’s a familiar and welcomed touch. Jingyi leans into it and grins.

He waits until Sizhui and Senior Wen fade into specks on the horizon. He gives himself a little shake and goes to fulfill his duties.

When Sizhui and Senior Wen arrive at the gates of the Cloud Recesses a month later, both brimming with newfound peace and energy, Jingyi is the first to greet them home.

through each and every season

They train, and learn, and grow in all the ways they hoped as children to grow.

Jingyi shoots up to Sizhui’s height, his shoulders broadening with enough strength to lift Sizhui, Jin Ling, Zizhen, and Lil Apple effortlessly with one arm. His cultivation improves to the point where he can night-hunt for hours and not get tired. Meanwhile, Sizhui flourishes with grace and elegance and all those excellent qualities Jingyi can wax poetry on night and day about; he earns his spot as the number one gentleman in their generation despite his stammering protests and Jingyi’s teasing laughter.

Jin Ling and Zizhen keep pace with Jingyi and Sizhui, never falling behind or running ahead too far that the others can’t catch up. Jin Ling never loses his sharp tongue and sharper mind, nor does Zizhen let go of his sentimental roots. But it’s Jin Ling’s golden arrows that protect their backs during night-hunts and determination in leading Lanling Jin they look up to, and it’s Zizhen’s sensitivity to others and insight into their plights that keeps them humble and grounded.

There are countless times they bicker and disagree and argue, but they grow together. Jingyi can’t imagine his life without any of them.

And this is, without a doubt, one of the funniest moments he has ever been witness to.

“You’re an official sect heir now, and you’re going to get courtship or marriage proposals,” Jin Ling says, making his voice deeper and more authoritative than Jingyi knows it is. “You have to remember that the whole thing is expected, so don’t be surprised when you get invitations to meet people’s daughters and sons.”

“You must be very careful, Sizhui-xiong! Don’t accidentally agree to anything,” Zizhen says with a pained expression. “Which means when they ask if you want to go for a walk somewhere, make sure you bring a chaperone!”

Sizhui, trapped against a tree, is red as a ripe apple.

Jingyi snorts and hiccups with laughter. He can’t breathe! This is too much!

“I think it’s still too early to think about these things," Sizhui says faintly. 

“No, you don’t,” Jin Ling says.

Sizhui chokes on a protest. Jingyi completely loses it, barely holding himself up. It’s a good thing they already cleared the area of ghosts and corpses because his laughter is loud enough to wake up several villages nearby.

“If you must marry someone—” Jin Ling starts again, insistent on bestowing sagely wisdom, and Sizhui lets out a squeak.

Jingyi cackles, falling into Zizhen’s side and causing him to yelp, which in turn forces Jin Ling to turn around and yank Jingyi off, giving Sizhui the chance to scramble away. This isn’t the first time and won’t be the last, and it’s one of the best night-hunts they’ve had so far.

there is a song calling him home

Little moments. Little stitches of time that make the fabric of his life. Many are colorful, others commonplace, each he holds dear. They may not be spectacular, but they’re his, and he is content even if his story may never reflect the grandeur of the ones he used to read avidly into the night.

In all of these moments, there is a person with a star-bright smile and gentle hands.

You’ve been here all along, he thinks. You stayed, and look how far we’ve come.

He wants them to keep going as long as they can. He wants to match this person step for step, through the pitfalls and pinnacles and prices they pay for the lives they live. Together is something he didn’t know he wanted because he always had it. But selfishly he still wants, he wants, he wants—

What can he want when he has been blessed with everything a person can ask for?

He thinks of Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei resplendent in red silks and happiness, going on night-hunts and adventures not long after their wedding. He thinks of Zewu-jun smiling as he reads letters from Sect Leader Jiang and Sect Leader Nie, a gleaming silver bell resting on his lap next to an exquisitely painted fan. He thinks of the tragedy of Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen, their lives pulled apart and a great what-could-have-been lost too soon.

He thinks of Lan An and his fated person, of his own parents whose faces have been lost to time but whose steadfast love he can still recall to this day, of the stories he’s read and the stories he’s seen come to life.

He thinks of songs, and constancy, and bright eyes like stars but much closer and warmer.

He thinks, Oh.

and finally, he answers

Jingyi wakes up to the gentle crescendo of Sizhui’s guqin.

The tune is soothing like a hymn yet interspersed with rich and deep notes. They hint of a story interlaced within each verse—there’s fondness and the teasing pinch of a cooling wind, breathless exhilaration and the tenor of a storm on the horizon, and something more subtle that whispers of so much longing, a profound yearning and a stubborn hope that defies despair.

It’s a song of love, and he aches.

He aches, but it doesn’t hurt.

He opens his eyes.

Sizhui sits draped in delicate dawn-light, gilded and pristine in white robes. His long elegant fingers glide over the guqin strings. Each note sings pure and true, tugging at Jingyi, vying for his attention though never demanding it.

Outside, the snow falls slow and gentle.

Sizhui ends the song with one last vibrato. It rings out soft but unyielding, wrapping them in the wake of its echo, so sweet and so strong in the same measure.

“Sizhui,” he says. His throat is dry, it comes out rough and raspy.

Sizhui startles. The guqin is unceremoniously abandoned on a low table as he hurries to Jingyi’s bedside.

“Jingyi,” Sizhui says, and Jingyi has never heard him sound so relieved. “How are you feeling?”

He becomes aware of thick cloth binding his chest and shoulders, of a dull and heavy ache all over his body. He remembers the wolf pack and is immediately grateful to have woken up.

“Like I’ve been mauled,” he says because it’s the truth.

Sizhui winces and puts both hands on his chest. Spiritual energy flows into him. He huffs, lifting a weak hand to wrap around Sizhui’s wrist. “Sizhui, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

“You’ve been asleep for two days,” Sizhui says. He doesn’t pull away and won’t meet Jingyi’s gaze. “Jin Ling and Zizhen are fine, you’re the only one that got hurt. It’s not as bad as it looks, but the resentful energy kept your wounds from healing—it got infected early on, and I thought—” he breaks off.

Jingyi lets go of his wrist and reaches up. “Shh, hey, look at me.”

Sizhui does. There are shadows under his bloodshot eyes. Jingyi cups his cheek and brushes his thumb along a pale cheekbone.

“I’m okay,” he says again. “Really, look at me! Nothing’s missing, right?”

Sizhui turns his face into Jingyi’s hand, exhaling slowly and closing his eyes. He looks tired but lovely, so soft and tender that Jingyi’s heart picks up a familiar pace. Thump-thump-thump, it says in wonder, and he understands.

It’s selfish because Sizhui already has a courtship and a partner he’s sharing it with, and Jingyi’s known this for months, but he only wants to say—

“I have to apologize for something,” Sizhui says, still nuzzled into Jingyi’s palm.

Jingyi blinks. “Okay?”

Sizhui sighs and lifts away to look Jingyi in the eye. “When you… Do you remember me holding you?”

Jingyi remembers hearing, I’m here—hang on a little longer, help is coming I promise. Stay with me.

He remembers thinking, I’d stay as long as you want me to. I’d stay with you forever.

He nods, shivering.

Sizhui brushes a finger along his forehead. It might just be the light, but there’s a pink flush in his cheeks. “I kissed you here.”

Jingyi’s mind stutters and blanks. The sensation of pressure on his forehead comes back to him like a splash of cold water. He croaks out, “Yes?”

“I shouldn’t have. I was overwhelmed and scared and wanted to reassure you, but I shouldn’t have done that without your permission.” Sizhui bows his head. “I’m sorry.”

Of course, Sizhui would apologize for something like that.

The first instinct is to say that there’s nothing to worry about. But the thing is, Sizhui may be generous with his affection, but even Jingyi knows that kisses like that are usually saved for a loved one. They’re important and special, aren’t they? To be shared with lovers, cultivation partners, and spouses? They are none of those, despite the thrumming ache of joy and realization and want in his chest.

Sizhui deserves his honesty.

Resolve can be fleeting but Jingyi musters all the courage and strength he can to grasp it tightly. He takes Sizhui’s hands in his own. “I’m going to say something—a lot of somethings, actually, and I know you’re going to be a bit confused and maybe angry, and I need you to listen to everything before you—you decide, okay?”

Sizhui looks understandably confused, though he nods and helps Jingyi sit up.

His heart is thrashing in his chest and it’s somewhat hard to breathe, but Sizhui is kind and his hands are gentle and steady in Jingyi’s.

This is Sizhui, Jingyi’s best friend for years, his partner in everything but cultivation. Even with all Jingyi wants to say, the words bubbling in his throat and threatening to spill over incoherently, Sizhui is not so unkind as to revoke their friendship or think less of Jingyi.

He can do this for both of them.

He says, “Sizhui, I love you.”

Sizhui freezes. His eyes widen.

He has to keep going, “I love you and I’m in love with you. I didn’t realize it until now but it’s true. I know—” his voice trembles before he steadies it—“I know you’re courting someone, and I’m also sorry for knowing that before you told me or made it official. I didn’t mean to hear about it but the people in the teahouse were so loud and obvious and I couldn’t stop thinking about it since the Mid-Autumn Festival.”

Sizhui’s mouth falls open slightly.

“I know I’m being really selfish to bring this up now, but I’ve always told you everything and I want you to know that I’m happy for you. That won’t ever change, even if I—no, especially because I love you. You’re going somewhere I can’t follow and that’s okay as long as you’re happy. Sizhui, I just want to stay your best friend forever, if you’ll have me.”

Sizhui makes a soft, wounded sound. Jingyi realizes they’re gripping each other’s hands tight. Just a little more, just a few more words, and it will have to be enough. “I’m saying all of this because you said you kissed me and you’re sorry for not asking first. I forgive you, okay? But kisses are important and special, and I—I think you should save them for your cultivation partner.”

A sharp inhale cuts the air. Sizhui is trembling, his face going through so many expressions that Jingyi can’t pick one out. He’s definitely confused, but is he also angry? Frustrated? Why does he look like he’s about to burst into tears?

“Sizhui?”

Sizhui stands abruptly. Their hands break apart. His eyes are burning with too many emotions to name. Jingyi swallows trepidation and lets his cold hands fall into his lap.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

A rustling of cloth, then warm, firm pressure on his forehead ribbon. His heart leaps into the sky.

Sizhui kisses him again before pulling back. He has never looked more determined, more focused, more intense.

In the light of the sunrise filling the room, he is radiant.

“These,” Sizhui says, “are for you.”

Then Sizhui whirls around and marches out the room, leaving Jingyi to sit alone with the afterimage of a song and a kiss.

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, there have been many times in Jingyi’s life that he’s been left without words.

When he received his sword and felt the thrum of spiritual energy imbued in the flawless steel, and the weight of Gusu Lan’s legacy on his shoulders.

When he saw a fierce ghost for the first time and couldn’t even shout, shaking in place until a senior disciple swept him away and back to Sizhui’s side.

When he watched Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei finally get married at the Cloud Recesses, surrounded by family and friends, and grinned past the happy tears.

But seeing the door close behind Sizhui, the firm imprint of his lips lingering on Jingyi’s forehead ribbon, raises the bar completely.

“What,” Jingyi says to the empty room.

There’s no second-guessing what just happened. It wasn’t a product of his overactive imagination or a projection of earnest feelings he now understands.

Sizhui kissed him. Sizhui kissed him on his forehead ribbon. Sizhui did that after Jingyi confessed to him, and he said, “These are for you.”

Jingyi lifts a hand to his ribbon, tracing the warm silk.

He realizes now that there have been misunderstandings in their relationship, but there’s no mistaking what Sizhui has done. He may have a playful and affectionate side, but this goes far beyond that. This is restraint demanded by righteousness, treasured for what it means when only family and loved ones can touch it.

He gets on his feet and moves toward the door, determination overpowering the pang of his wounds. He has to find Sizhui. He has to sit him down so they can actually talk and get everything out in the open because if he’s reading all signs right, if all the clues are coming together correctly—then Sizhui might love him back.

Sizhui might love him back, and the very idea gives him the strength to keep walking.

He’s only a few steps from the door when it slides open, admitting Jin Ling and Zizhen. He perks up. They look healthy and hale, both sporting understandably confused expressions. He can only imagine how he appears right now, heavily bandaged and unkempt and limping toward the door.

Jin Ling says, indignant, “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be in bed!”

“Jingyi-xiong!” Zizhen exclaims, rushing over and grabbing Jingyi’s arm. “We were so worried! Why are you walking around? You’re going to open your wounds. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I need to find Sizhui,” Jingyi says, eyeing the free space between Jin Ling and the doorframe. Any other time, he’d swing his arms around them and cling until Jin Ling yells the mountain down, but all he can think of is Sizhui, and what has been happening between them for who-knows-how-long, and that they need to settle this before any more misunderstandings can complicate their relationship.

Jin Ling raises a brow and closes the door behind him. “He just ran past us and said he had to get something. What’s going on? Why are you causing trouble the moment you wake up?”

“Me? I’m not doing anything! Sizhui was the one who—” Jingyi thinks he should lower his voice and probably consider his next words, but surely this, of all situations, can be his exception of the day— “kissed me on my forehead ribbon!”

Jin Ling’s face scrunches up. “I don’t need to know what you and Sizhui do in private.”

Zizhen, however, has gone starry-eyed. He curls around Jingyi’s arm and all about coos, “That's so sweet! Sizhui hasn’t left your side since Senior Wen brought you back to the Cloud Recesses. He insisted on playing songs for you and watched over you even though the healers said you were stable. And ah, he kissed you the moment you woke up! Jin Ling, isn’t that so sweet?”

Jin Ling spasms and grits out, “Sure.”

Jingyi can’t believe what he’s hearing. Why aren’t they the least bit surprised? Why are they acting like this is something normal and expected?

“Didn’t you two hear me? Sizhui kissed me, on my forehead ribbon.” He can hear his voice going slightly high-pitched near the end.

“Calm down, you’re loud enough to wake up the whole mountain,” Jin Ling retorts. “What did you expect him to do? Ravish you the moment you woke up? Don’t you both know better than that?”

Jingyi stares.

They stare back.

Zizhen grabs his shoulders. “Wait, Jingyi-xiong, does your head hurt? Why are you so shocked that Sizhui kissed you? Is—do you feel like you’re forgetting something?”

“My memory’s fine. Why aren’t you shocked? People don’t kiss each other unless—unless—”

A tumultuous pause.

Jingyi thinks he might have underestimated many things.

“Stars and gods above,” Jin Ling groans.

“Oh,” Zizhen says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jingyi demands.

Zizhen glances at Jin Ling and says, “I think you should sit down first, Jingyi-xiong.”

“Why? No, I can’t. I have to find Sizhui, I have to talk to him about something important!”

“Oh, I bet,” Jin Ling says, crossing his arms. “How are you going to do that if you can barely move? Flop on the snow and freeze? Can you sit down before you collapse already?”

Jingyi looks at the window.

“Jingyi-xiong, no!” Zizhen cries out and snatches his arm as he lurches toward freedom. “Think about Sizhui!”

“I am but you two are making it hard to do anything!”

Jin Ling looks about ready to unsheathe Suihua.

Jingyi says, “I can lift you both even in this state.”

Jin Ling twitches.

The door opens with a loud click. Jingyi’s neck hurts with how fast he turns to look, but it’s not Sizhui.

Senior Wei glides into the room with a bright grin and says, “Boys, it looks like we’ve found ourselves in quite the unexpected situation.”

“Senior Wei,” Jingyi says weakly. He expects Hanguang-jun to follow right behind, but there’s no sign of white robes and golden eyes. He wonders what that might mean.

Senior Wei breezes past Jin Ling. “Jingyi, it’s good to see you awake and so energetic! Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll have a talk, hm? A-Ling, Zizhen, run along now.”

Zizhen lets go of Jingyi and grabs Jin Ling, tugging him out of the room. “Jingyi-xiong, we’ll go now, okay? Rest well! We’ll drop by later if you’re ali—awake!”

Jin Ling shuts the door with a little wave and grin.

“And then there were two,” Senior Wei muses. He puts a hand on Jingyi’s shoulder and steers him back to the bed. “Now, now, don’t look so scared. Have I ever given you reason to be afraid of me?”

“Other than your cooking, Senior Wei?” Jingyi says, sitting obediently.

“One day, you juniors will appreciate the magnificence of the spice,” Senior Wei laughs, shaking his head and sitting beside Jingyi. “A-Yuan can handle a whole bowl of my congee now, did you know? I told Lan Zhan, see, it’s not only a matter of time but consistency! Once something starts happening on a regular basis, it can start to feel quite normal.”

Jingyi gulps. Senior Wei isn’t talking about congee only. “About Sizhui—”

“Hm, yes, I was wondering why A-Yuan was in such a panic,” Senior Wei says, flicking his nose in thought. “Lan Zhan and I expected him to be ecstatic that you were awake. You can imagine our surprise when he came running—running! I wish Lan Qiren was around—down the hall, babbling about making something obvious and needing supplies, or ingredients, whichever one.” He winks. “Lan Zhan wanted to come see Jingyi also, but A-Yuan looked like he needed his help more. Perhaps Jingyi can enlighten me as to why?”

Jingyi has nothing to lose. It’s dawning on him that everyone else except him might be aware of his and Sizhui’s relationship—or rather, what kind of relationship to which they’ve transitioned their friendship, without him fully realizing it. “Sizhui kissed me on my forehead ribbon after I confessed that I love him, then he ran out.”

“Ah,” Senior Wei says, and it’s as much of an affirmation as it is an acknowledgment.

“Ah?” Jingyi repeats. “Senior Wei, you know what it means.”

“There are many it in this conversation,” Senior Wei points out, not unkindly.

Jingyi wants to bury himself in the snow, but that won’t help him get to Sizhui, so he admits, “I didn’t know. Sizhui is—he can be—he’s so—”

Kind, and loving, and tries to be so generous and righteous that it’s hard to tell if or when he wants something for himself.

“I know,” Senior Wei says as Jingyi absorbs this realization, smiling the way he does when he’s thinking about Hanguang-jun. “He gets that from Lan Zhan. Sometimes they forget that others need more clarity to understand them.”

Jingyi’s chest aches. “I need to find and talk to him. I need to apologize. It’s not fair to him that I didn’t try to ask or know more when I started thinking that things seemed different.”

Senior Wei grins proudly. “Then you’re doing better than I did, and you didn’t even have to die!”

“Senior Wei,” Jingyi says, shocked, but then he’s laughing. He laughs so hard his ribs creak in protest and his vision becomes blurry.

“There we go,” Senior Wei says, patting Jingyi’s back. “If you can find a reason to smile and laugh, that’s a good first step.”

Jingyi swipes his sleeve across his eyes. “I think I’m ready for the next step now.”

Senior Wei claps his hands. “Good! Then I can go see what A-Yuan is up to. Lan Zhan!” he calls out, and Jingyi’s jaw drops as the door slides open and Hanguang-jun enters, calm as ever. “Lan Zhan, my good Hanguang-jun, is our A-Yuan well or has he completely scandalized the entirely of Gusu?”

Hanguang-jun comes to stand before Jingyi and Senior Wei. His broad frame blocks the light from the window and his golden eyes are as cool as ice, and the man has never looked more foreboding.

“He is in the kitchen,” Hanguang-jun says. Senior Wei’s eyes light up and he gives a loud peck to Hanguang-jun’s pale cheek.

“It’s my turn!” Senior Wei throws Jingyi a wink over his shoulder. “Be well, Jingyi! I expect to see you very soon.”

Senior Wei takes the levity with him when he leaves, and then it’s just Jingyi and a man he deeply respects and admires, whom he looks up to and doesn’t want to disappoint.

“Hanguang-jun,” he says, starting to stand up, but Hanguang-jun gestures for him to stay, looking Jingyi over with that clear golden stare.

Jingyi straights his back, pushes back his shoulders, and hopes that what Hanguang-jun sees is sufficient.

It must be, as Hanguang-jun gracefully takes a seat on the bed-end and brings forth his guqin. The lacquered surface has an unearthly glow; Jingyi has seen the instrument in action, ridding entire areas of resentful energy with ease, and heard it played leisurely with legendary skill, but he has never seen it this close.

Hanguang-jun plucks at the strings, and to Jingyi’s surprise, the song is soothing, firm in its delivery but gentle in its message, and Jingyi—

He doesn’t need to ask, but he does need to turn away to wipe his eyes again.

It ends with solemnity, an acceptance and allowance, and Hanguang-jun simply says, “Be true.”

“I will,” Jingyi swears with everything he is, everything he has.

The corners of Hanguang-jun’s mouth curve up the tiniest amount, and Jingyi suddenly feels like he can face the world without fear.

It’s a good thing too because the door—which must be on its last legs after so much activity—slides open loudly.

Sizhui is breathing hard, face pink and chest almost heaving as if he’s been running for a long time. His hair is a blur of wayward strands, and his clothes are disheveled. His forehead ribbon is askew. He has never looked so uncomposed, so un-Lan and un-Sizhui. If Jingyi hasn’t been attuned to his presence since they were young, he’d have thought this was a random clan disciple who partook in alcohol and escaped the privacy of their room.

Astounded, Jingyi croaks out, “Sizhui?”

“Jingyi,” Sizhui says, sounding winded. He spots Hanguang-jun and immediately composes himself, quickly fixing his hair and robes before bowing. “Father, forgive my appearance. May I borrow Jingyi?”

Hanguang-jun lets out the smallest sound of amusement. “Do not stay outside too long.”

“What,” Jingyi says.

“We won’t,” Sizhui says. He waits for Hanguang-jun to pass, and then he’s in front of Jingyi with arms outstretched. “Jingyi, please come with me?”

Jingyi finds his throat dry at the blindingly earnest look on Sizhui’s face. He bites his lip and nods.

He makes to stand, but Sizhui goes down on one knee and scoops him up, settling Jingyi in his arms.

“What,” he says as Sizhui carries him outside, jumping as a pulse of spiritual energy embraces him and wards off the chill of deep winter. “Wait, wait, Sizhui, where are we going?”

Sizhui looks him in the eyes and says, “I’m going to show you all the places I fell in love with you.”

Jingyi must black out for a moment since the next time he blinks, they’re on a path leading to the outer buildings of the Cloud Recesses.

“I should have prefaced that more carefully,” Sizhui says, apologetic, when Jingyi tugs the front of his robes to get his attention.

“A little warning might be nice,” Jingyi agrees, his voice reedy.

Sizhui rests his temple against Jingyi’s. “I didn’t want there to be more miscommunication between us.”

Jingyi can feel Sizhui’s heartbeat thudding beside him, and he slowly lays his palm over it.

Where they are is quiet, and the air brims with the smell of a fresh snowfall. The sky is clear for a winter morning. There should be disciples around, but it is only the two of them, and the fast rhythm under Jingyi’s hand clues him in as to why.

“You’ve done so much, haven’t you?” he says softly.

Sizhui doesn’t shiver, but it’s a close thing. “So much except tell you, out of everyone, that I have feelings for you, and want to pursue you.”

“You did tell me, just without the exact words.” There are too many moments showing Sizhui’s affection and intentions to count. “I’m sorry, I should have spoken up about it. I felt things were different, but I couldn’t tell how.”

“I thought I was being very obvious,” Sizhui admits. “You looked so happy when we’re together. I thought you knew, and that I was doing everything right. I should have told you at the beginning instead of assuming.”

“I am happy when I’m with you.” Jingyi touches Sizhui’s cheek so they can look at each other. He smiles and says, “And you can tell me now.”

Sizhui does shiver at that. “Yes. Okay.”

He fulfills his promise, taking Jingyi to the places around the Cloud Recesses and explaining in a warm, hushed voice that makes Jingyi blush but listen eagerly.

There’s the library, where they both spent countless hours studying or, in Jingyi’s case, doing handstands and copying, where last summer Sizhui looked at Jingyi reading by candlelight and felt something flutter in his chest.

There are the training grounds and the lecture halls, where it was rare for either of them to be without the other, where Sizhui came to wish for Jingyi’s presence at his side than just during classes and training.

There’s the main hall where Zewu-jun holds meetings with the elders and teachers, which Sizhui has become familiar with since taking the mantle of sect heir, where he looked out the windows and watched Jingyi laugh with the other juniors, and wanted.

There are the outer gates of the Cloud Recesses where Jingyi welcomed Sizhui after he traveled with Senior Wen, hugging him tightly as Sizhui whispered the truth of his lineage, where Sizhui realized years later that if there was a person he wanted to come home to, it was Jingyi.

Senior Wen is waiting for them at the gates, and he smiles in welcome.

“Are you well, Young Master Lan?” Senior Wen asks, relieved and not at all confused about Sizhui carrying Jingyi.

Jingyi has Sizhui put him down so he can bow, resisting Senior Wen’s exclamations. “I’ve never felt better. Thank you, Senior Wen.”

When Jingyi lifts his head, Senior Wen has an expression of pure warmth as he watches Sizhui take Jingyi back in his arms.

“We’re happy A-Yuan found you,” Senior Wen says, and there’s so, so much weight to the words, but more like a winter coat and not a heavy burden. “Take care of each other.”

Jingyi nods, too overwhelmed to reply. Sizhui presses his nose to the side of Jingyi’s head, and he is comforted.

The last place Sizhui takes him is the meadow. The rabbits are in their hutches, leaving the field open and surprisingly vast. Jingyi can almost see their younger selves meeting here, then older versions continuing to visit.

The meadow grew rabbits and flowers, but it also nurtured him and Sizhui over the years.

“I met my best friend here,” Sizhui says. “I heard his songs over the grass, and saw sunlight in his eyes, and I was in love.”

Sizhui’s been far more poetic today than Jingyi expected, saying such things when Jingyi least expects them, and this is no different. He clings to Sizhui’s robes, tired from learning so much and smiling for hours, cradled and cared for in Sizhui’s arms.

“People say I’m the talkative one, but they don’t know you,” Jingyi says.

“You know me.”

“I do, I know you better now.” Jingyi leans back, meets those star-bright eyes, and knows they are filled with affection.

With the wintry cold coaxing them together, and their feelings laid bare, it seems like the perfect time for a kiss, like the ones all the stories describe in extensive detail.

But Jingyi hugs Sizhui instead, tucking his head under Sizhui’s chin. He notices that Sizhui smells like tea and something spicy, the fragrant sandalwood absent.

“You smell different,” he murmurs.

Sizhui stiffens and blurts out, “Hanguang-jun said that Senior Wei likes the smell of sandalwood, so I thought—“

It completely shatters the soft mood.

“Oh gods,” Jingyi says.

“Jingyi, don’t—“

“Are you saying—“

“I—“

“Did you use incense or soap—“

“Let me explain,” Sizhui relents and says nothing more as Jingyi hollers with laughter, carrying him to their room.

Their room is warm, the bed made, and there is a large tied bag sitting on the sheets. Jingyi eyes it curiously. Sizhui puts him down on the bed and tugs the bag over.

“When I decided I wanted to court you,” Sizhui starts casually, as if his words are not sending Jingyi’s heart-rate into dangerously fast speeds even after everything they told each other, “I first went to Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei. I told them, there’s someone I care about dearly and want to court, how do I do it right?”

He unfastens the strings of the bag. “Senior Wei had all sorts of ideas. Give them loquats and paintings, or invent a new talisman to impress them. Have them chase you around the Cloud Recesses for one reason or another, and tease them until they blush.” He smiles, shaking his head. “Hanguang-jun said to give them gifts they can use, like food or money. Compose them a song. See them for who they are. Never try to trap them, but trust and stand beside them.”

Sizhui takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His expression becomes gentler, more contemplative. “I asked them because they are so happy together, and they earned their happiness. I’m selfish, Jingyi. I wanted that for you and me. But I realized, Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei have their own story. What they went through, what they did and accomplished—that belongs to them.”

Quiet falls in the spaces between thudding heartbeats. Sizhui says, softer and more vulnerable than Jingyi’s ever heard him, “They inspired me, yes, but you and I are neither Hanguang-jun nor Senior Wei. So, I went to the library and searched every shelf. Did you know there are no official books on courtship? There are many on romantic poetry, and those stories you love, but no guides on how to properly court someone of Gusu Lan.”

Sizhui reaches inside. “I realized that if I wanted to court you the way you deserve, I must do it using my own ideas and skills.”

He pulls out a bowl of fried chicken.

Jingyi blinks once. Twice.

Sizhui isn’t done, taking out the comb Jingyi wears every day, cleaned and polished. He unbuckles his sword and puts it down next, then summons his guqin. The last thing he takes from the bag is an oddly shaped parcel wrapped in fine silk.

“This,” Sizhui says, and it sounds like a vow, “is how I wanted to court you. I will provide for you, get you as many chicken wings as you want, and comb your hair until it turns white. I will encourage you in your endeavors because I know you can do it. I will listen to you in joy and in sadness, and do my best to hear what you can't say. I will protect you when I can and won’t leave your side when I can’t. I will cherish you—you’re my best friend, one of the best people I know, and I want you so much.”

Sizhui’s hands frame Jingyi’s face. “I will be devoted to you, as I love you and I am in love with you.”

“Oh,” Jingyi says, “Sizhui, please hold me.”

Sizhui quickly puts the gifts and tokens away except for the silk parcel and folds his arms around Jingyi.

He burrows into Sizhui, and there are no words.

After some time, Sizhui whispers, “There’s one more thing.”

“More?” Jingyi rasps, wrung out in the best way.

Sizhui pulls over the parcel, making sure Jingyi is watching before unraveling the strings.

A silver-blue headpiece rests in a bed of silk.

Sizhui says, “This is why I’ve been in meetings for months. Jingyi, do you understand?”

Jingyi nods, throat tight. The headpiece is identical to the one Jingyi helps Sizhui put on and remove every day. It gleams, every arch and point burnished without fault. The design is simple but elegant and unmistakable.

It belongs to a future sect leader.

“You said you were selfish for telling me you love me when you thought I was courting someone else. I must be the most selfish, then, to ask you to lead beside me.”

“Sizhui,” Jingyi says, “when did—how did you—is this even allowed?”

Sizhui nods. “The other elders and teachers took some convincing, but Teacher Lan and Zewu-jun vouched for me, and for you. Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei also helped.” He smiles, a touch mischievous. “There’s no precedent for it, but we can make our own way. Besides, there are no rules, Gusu Lan or otherwise, against two husbands leading a sect."

“Husbands,” Jingyi repeats. “You want us to be husbands. You want us to lead Gusu Lan together.”

“When the time comes,” Sizhui says. His cheeks are turning pink. “You don’t have to lead with me if you don’t want to. If you want to teach or sing or cultivate on the road, I will support you. But I—the first thing—yes, I want us to be husbands. I want that more than anything.”

Jingyi can’t help himself. “You love me.”

Sizhui doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”

“You want to marry me.”

“Yes,” Sizhui says, brow furrowing, as if wondering why Jingyi is asking such an obvious question.

“You want me to be a sect leader.” The idea is novel and frankly a little intimidating, but a part of him wants to try.

“Yes. I think you’ll do well if you want it, and there’s no one else I want at my side.”

Jingyi lets himself say with wonder, “You want to be my cultivation partner.”

Sizhui sighs and puts aside the headpiece before tugging Jingyi into his lap, hands curving around his waist. The position puts Jingyi at the perfect angle to wind his arms around Sizhui’s neck and look directly at Sizhui. So, he does, because he can and because Sizhui is beautiful in his boldness.

He realizes now he can think such thoughts, and know they will be favored and equally returned. He beams, giddy. Sizhui’s eyes widen.

“Lan Jingyi, I want to marry you,” Sizhui declares. “I want you to know you have a place by my side leading Gusu Lan, if you wish it. I want us to be partners in marriage, in cultivation, in all things. What do you say?”

Jingyi is grinning so hard now, his heart swelling with so much joy and hope that his face must be contorting with the force of it all. Sizhui only gazes back with a wide smile and no small amount of wonder.

He wants to shout “Yes!” at the top of his lungs. He wants to accept right away. How could he not? The future Sizhui paints unfolds in his mind’s eye like an aching dream, vibrant and bursting with possibilities, and he wants, oh how he wants.

But Sizhui has done so much for him, and it’s time Jingyi does the same.

“I want all of those things too,” he says, pulling back to cup Sizhui’s face in his hands. “I really do, but I have a request.”

Sizhui clearly didn’t expect that. He blinks and nods slowly. “Of course.”

Jingyi smiles. “Lan Sizhui, I want to court you.”

“… What.”

“I want to court you. I want to marry you, of course, and be your cultivation partner and help you lead, but first I want to court you. You deserve it, Sizhui, don’t shake your head at me! Don’t I get to spoil you too? Do you really think I’ll leave you empty-handed and unattended? What kind of person do you think I am? Surely you know me better than that. I didn’t read all those books and stories just to let my future husband do all the work!”

“I—but we—you don’t have to,” Sizhui says faintly. “We confessed to each other. We understand what we both want now. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Jingyi is scandalized. “Aren’t we equals? You did your part and now I’m going to do mine. If we’re going to be married, we have to go about this righteously, and that means I have to officially court you first. You already did right by me, but I have a lot to make up for, you know!”

Sizhui looks as if he’s been dunked headfirst in the cold springs. “But I was hoping… the wedding…”

“There’s still going to be a wedding! Do you want to get married so much that you won’t let me court you first?”

“Jingyi.” Sizhui sounds like he’s begging. “You don’t need to court me.”

“I want to,” Jingyi insists. “Let me do this for you.”

Sizhui makes a rough sound and buries his warm face in Jingyi’s neck.

“Sizhui, I think this will be good for us,” Jingyi says to the top of Sizhui’s head, lifting his hands to comb through Sizhui’s hair. He presses his smile into the dark strands. “A lot happened, and I missed so much of it because I didn’t know. If I can court you, we can have more time to talk about many things.”

“What things,” Sizhui grumbles, muffled.

Jingyi huffs. “Well, what about how you convinced the elders to let me lead with you? I still can’t believe you managed that, you need to tell me all the details. What did Hanguang-jun and Senior Wei say? Actually, how long have they known? How long has everyone else known? Sizhui, see? We have so much to talk about. We don’t have to rush.”

Sizhui extracts himself from the crook of Jingyi’s neck. He looks worn down and unbearably tender. “I know. Forgive me, I’m being too hasty. You’re right, we have time. I…”

Jingyi nudges their foreheads together, shivering as their ribbons meet in the middle. Sizhui’s arms wrap around his waist, keeping him close. This is a familiar warmth made heady by brand-new intimacy, and he marvels in it. “It’s okay. I want, too.”

Sizhui rubs his nose against Jingyi’s, an affectionate nuzzle that makes Jingyi glad he’s sitting on a very comfortable lap instead of standing as his knees immediately go weak.

“Then that’s enough for me,” Sizhui acquiesces after a moment. “You can court me as you see fit.”

Happiness has never felt so sweet, Jingyi thinks, as he surges into Sizhui, knocking them both down on the bed. Sizhui lands with a surprised gasp then adjusts his hold on Jingyi.

“I hope you’re ready,” Jingyi tells him, giddy to plan the very best things for Sizhui. “I want to sweep you off your feet.”

“You won’t have to try very hard, but I look forward to it,” Sizhui says, tucking Jingyi’s bangs behind his ear. His fingers linger over Jingyi’s forehead ribbon. Jingyi recognizes the longing on his face as the same one burning strong inside himself.

“You won’t have to wait too long,” he promises.

“It’s yours, I’m yours,” he doesn’t say. Not yet. It’s still too soon, the revelations of the day too fresh. Some things are meant to be saved for another day, to be savored after more time has been put into them. Besides, Sizhui knows Jingyi loves him, and Jingyi knows Sizhui loves him. That’s more than enough for now.

When they exchange ribbons, it will be with them knowing exactly what they’re devoting themselves to, and that will make the moment all the more precious.

Sizhui pretends to think about it. “I suppose I can wait a little longer. What’s a few more weeks or months?”

The words make room for playfulness, so Jingyi jumps on the chance to slowly draw his hands to Sizhui’s sides.

“Mark your words, Lan Sizhui!” he announces before digging his fingers in.

“Jingyi—” Sizhui manages before dissolving into laughter. Jingyi laughs, delighted, as Sizhui squirms beneath him.

Sizhui must have been training his arm strength in secret, though, because in the next breath, he’s clamping down on Jingyi’s hips and rolling them over. Jingyi yelps as strong fingers press into his sides.

Then they’re rolling around on the bed, limbs flailing and knocking sheets and pillows to the floor. Sizhui laughs so hard he snorts, and Jingyi does his best to hear the sound again.

After, Jingyi ends up on his back, breathless. Sizhui hovers above him, just as affected if the red in his cheeks and tremors in his arms are of any indication. He regards Jingyi for a moment before taking off his outer robes, wrapping them up, and tucking them under Jingyi’s head.

“A-Yuan,” Jingyi says, taken.

“A-Yi,” Sizhui replies. He lowers himself on his elbows, watching Jingyi for any sign of protest.

Jingyi brings his arms around Sizhui’s neck and grins. He may be broader than Sizhui but in a position like this, Sizhui’s warmth covers his whole body, and he very much likes it.

Sizhui frames his cheek, his jaw working. When he speaks, it’s husky and low. “Do you know how lovely your smile is? It’s like the sun breaking out from behind clouds. Whenever you smile, I feel like everything is going to be okay.”

Jingyi feels hot under his robes. “Sizhui, have you been practicing poetry behind my back?”

“Indeed, you’re my main inspiration,” Sizhui says.

He has to cover his burning face. “That has to be against the rules.”

“It’s not,” Sizhui says, coaxing his hands away and twining their fingers together. “Why are you hiding? There’s no need to feel shy. We’re courting.”

“We are,” Jingyi says. He feels like flying around the Cloud Recesses and shouting the words for the whole world to hear. But the whole world may have already long known, so he’s content to stay where he is.

Sizhui smiles, and—

Thump-thump-thump, Jingyi’s heart goes with bliss like it did the first time in the inn so many months ago. Except now he understands what each beat is saying, like the notes of a song weaving together, and unlike the song he cut off in the meadow, this one flows boldly free, uninhibited and fearless.

He has to urge Sizhui down, has to press small indulgent kisses to that regal brow, under those star-bright eyes that have gone half-lidded, on the cheeks and the curve of a chin. He has to tuck into Sizhui’s neck and breathe in tea and spice, and smile as Sizhui swallows with an audible click.

How wonderful it is to hold Sizhui like this, to have him close enough that their heartbeats can meet, to take in his warmth and scent and touch. Heat unfurls in his belly as the thought of being even closer comes to the forefront of his mind, but he shyly pushes it to the side. It’s too early to think about such things; they will have to talk about it first, and then, and then—

“Jingyi,” Sizhui breathes, rough, “I want to kiss you.”

Jingyi’s breath stutters, and he pulls back. The sunlight bathes Sizhui in rich swathes of silver and gold. His eyes are bright with want, earnest yet innocent. Jingyi did say he wanted time to court Sizhui, to take it slow enough to enjoy, but maybe he can give in to this. Just a little bit.

He says, “Then kiss me.”

And Sizhui does.

It’s not perfect. He didn’t expect it to be. Their lips are a bit chapped and their noses get in the way, and there’s the awkward process of finding the right angle. There’s even light and easy laughter that he didn’t expect but comes naturally.

And yet, it is soft, and it is sublime, and sometime later, when the moonlight is the only witness to their embrace, when he lets Sizhui pull away enough to whisper in a hoarse voice, “I love you”, it is everything.

It is absolutely everything.

 Winter fractals melt into spring blooms, and summer settles with ease.

The seasons are kind this year, Jingyi thinks as Sizhui helps him with his headpiece. He’s gotten used to the heavier weight but fastening it still needs two people. Sizhui is more than happy to fulfill that role. Jingyi would be just as happy if Sizhui remembers that there are duties to finish and other people to see.

“Sizhui, we’re going to be late,” he chides as Sizhui takes his time in securing Jingyi’s bangs with the comb. “We can’t keep doing this three times in a row.”

Sizhui gives a tiny smirk. Familiar heat laces up Jingyi’s spine, and he shoots his betrothed what he hopes is a warning look. Sizhui blinks at him with wide eyes.

Jingyi snorts. As if he doesn’t know what and how much Sizhui is capable of when he puts his mind to it. The winter nights were long and cold, after all, and the months following only saw their desire for each other grow.

When Sizhui tilts his head up, Jingyi can’t refuse him.

They kiss slow and deep, the way they learned they both liked the most. Sizhui’s hands are steady on his waist, and he twines the ends of his forehead ribbon that Sizhui now wears around his fingertips.

When they can bear to part, Sizhui refuses to relinquish his hand and says, “Jingyi, are you ready?”

There will be a wedding in the Cloud Recesses. There will be red silk, and magnolias and orchids and lilies in full color; there will be three bows, family and friends around them, and they will be able to call each other husband. There will be children of their own, someday, and memories to fill a house and make it a home, near the meadow where they first met.

There will be many years ahead, and even if fortune refuses to favor them, they will be strong enough, daring enough, to make their own path righteously.

But first, they have today and a new morning that awaits them.

“Yes,” Jingyi says. “Sizhui, let’s go.”